


if four idiots fall in the forest

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: the hot mess [4]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But there will be fluff, Camping, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Modern AU, fAMILY BONDING IS GR8, paul is fuelled by salt, running around screaming a lot, starrison are in over their heads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2019-11-15 01:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: one week after the bet,Paul believes they don't bond enough and decides to take everyone into the woods to camp. EVERYTHING goes wrong.meanwhile, starrison





	1. paul has a very nice time

**Author's Note:**

> well look what happened. too many ideas 
> 
> that aside, welcome to hot mess no. 4. at this rate this series is gonna take ages. 
> 
> enjoy! <3

Paul waits for everyone to finish dinner before he brings it up, but it’s far too tempting. He'd been googling it all day.

“So.” He begins refilling his glass. “I don’t think we actually bonded.”

“We have plenty time to bond,” John says through a chew of food. “We live in the same house. And _sometimes_ we play music.”

“Y’know that’s not what I mean,” Paul chuckles. “I was thinkin’ we do something as a family, y’know? Spice it up a bit! Instead of just, y’know… _stayin’ in_ and all-”

John groans. Ringo lets out a small laugh.

“Alright, _mum._ ” George reaches for his own glass. “Out with it already.”

“I want to camp.”

John makes an oddly satisfying choked noise. 

“In the woods."

He coughs. “It’s… cold outside.”

Paul smiles. “All the more to bundle up.” Being in charge was the shit. “An’ we don’t have to go too far, or too long. Jus’ far and long enough as we need to bond.”

John looks as if he may faint. He gives George a pleading look.

“Why not.”

Ringo turns to look at him. Then at John, eyes -slightly- wider. George glances back at Ringo just a mo, _c’mon live a little,_ and it’s two on two.

“When d’you wanna go?”

“Asap.”

“Do we even have a tent?” asks Ringo.

“I think Eric’s got a tent-”

“We’re not going camping!” John cuts in. “An’ if you think that any of you’s gonna last ten _fucking_ minutes in the wild-”

“Oh yes,” says Paul, unmoved. “You wanna bet?”

Ringo inhales so heavily half his dinner goes up his nose. Paul's pulse goes miles a minute when he sees the flash of ouch in John's face, but if he softens now he'll never get his way. He manages a grin on the first go. "I didn't think so."

He feels terrible immediately. But there's some biting rush that just comes with seeing Lennon Almighty reduced into stutters. John looks helplessly at George and Ringo. 

"Well?"

"I like it." George shrugs. "We could use a breather."

Ringo. "What he said."

"You bleedin' sons of-"

"It's just camping, John," says George. 

"We don't have a tent."

"I can call Eric to lend his."

"Yeah yeah, real nice Geo. But wHY," John turns to Paul, agonised and slow, "DO YOU EVEN WANT TO DO THIS."

"We're always doin' what _you_ want to do," says Ringo. John glares at him.

"I've always wanted to go." Paul pouts perfectly, not too pathetic of a plea and not too cold for the likes of ice. "I thought... it'd be fun."

It takes all of his will to not burst into giggles. But then John caves in. 

"Fine." Hands go up alongside his groan. "Goddamnit Macca, you-"

Paul swoops across the table and plants one right on his lips. Ringo facepalms in the corner of his eye.


	2. ringo does the dishes

John makes a bottomless groan when he has to borrow Paul's phone, so much that he forgets to light the cig in his mouth. Paul curls up on the sofa with John's laptop, radiating every inch of the flat with rampant pretty bitch energy. Ringo washes his own plate in the sink.

"-no Mimi, this is John- no, I didn't lose my phone _again_ , it was a god darned accident. And nO, _nothin'_ to do with police-"

Ringo sighs. He adds more dish soap to the dish and tries not to think about camping.

"Hey. Am I interrupting anythin'?"

"Nope," Ringo spins around with a smirk. George stops a bit, plate in hand and phone at his ear. Ringo takes that plate with an awkward chuckle.

A quick mutter of thanks. "Alright alright, lemme just ask a favour..."

George exits the kitchen. Ringo looks down at the dirty plate and considers screaming into it. They'd seen each other naked _goddamnit_ and now _Nope?!?!?!?_ _What a twit._

Then a shout of fuck echoes through the flat.

"Calm the fuck down!" Ringo yells.

" _You_ calm the fuck down!" John yells back. "Shit, Mimi, not you, Ringo's jus' being a- hello? Helloooo?"

Ringo nearly chucks the plate in the sink.

~

John tosses Paul's phone square into his chest. "She said you're fuckin' barmy."

"When has Mimi ever said fuck?"

"She still said you're barmy."

Paul scoffs. "That's fair."

"Well don't expect _us_ to be fair on ye," says John. "This better be some trip."

"It will be! You don't trust me?"

"I trust that you're a git."

"Cor! Sidin' with Mimi, are we?"

John rolls his eyes as he plops next to Paul and headbutts his shoulder weakly.

"You better charge my comp."

"I will."

~

They stop outside Eric's building to pick up the tent. It's a huge, lone bag.

"What the hell," goes John. "Where's the rest of it?"

"This _is_ it," Eric says proudly. "A four-man."

"WHAT. You're tellin' me I got to share-" he points an accusing finger at George and Ringo in the backseat "-with those two?"

"Why not?"

"They're at it like rabbits every night!" John screeches. " _And_ they're screamers! God, I need a cig-"

"John," Paul groans. He hoists the tent bag onto his shoulders. "Thanks again, Eric."

"Oh, anytime." He chuckles. "But, uh, if you _do_ want a bit of how's your father and all-"

John bursts into giggles.

"Christ, Clapton. We're decent men," says Paul.

"Wouldn't say otherwise. Just give her back clean, alright?"

John's still pissing himself even after Paul hauls him and the tent back to the van, crammed in the boot with all their bags.

"Only one?" Ringo asks.

"Obviously." Paul starts the engine. "But great for bonding, ain't it?"

"Oh yeah," John sings. He sticks a cig in his mouth and rolls down his window. "All cramped and _hot_ an' _sweaty_ an'-"

"Don't smoke," warns Paul.

George, as if on command, shakes the pack of nicotine gum under John's nose.

"Aw, c'mon! No one does that-"

" 'm doing it," says George. He sticks out his tongue as proof.

John screeches. "You put that back where it came from!"

George and his tongue inch daringly closer, chewed yellow-grey lump sliding to the tip. John backs up against the door and smacks his head against the half opened window. Ringo snorts so nasally that Paul nearly cracks his window out to be sick.

Maybe this was a bad idea-

“There we go, Lennon! Not too bad, I told ye-“

“SOMEDAY I WILL KICK YOU IN YER FUCKIN’ FACE,” John says through a reluctant chew. He turns his nose away with a grunt, and stares out at the street.

Paul’s eyes water from a yawn.


	3. john yells about cornflakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies for the wait. i had to deal with... uh....myself? yes. 
> 
> anyway,,,,, i hope you enjoy

_Never reach the campsite after dark,_  check. The van stops outside a narrow grove while the sun’s bright and high.

“Everybody out,” says Paul.

“What!” John shouts. “With all the stuff on our backs?”

“No, we’re drivin’ right through and bulldozing all the trees.” Paul rolls his eyes. “Of course we’re carryin’ it all! Now get busy.”

John unleashes into a volley of curses. George and Ringo snicker as they unload their bags from the back door.

“Ritch,” Paul says, ignoring John with a passion, “Can you head in with the tent?”

Ringo picks up the tent bag and almost topples to the ground.

“It‘s pretty heavy,” Paul adds.

“Here,” George takes one of the straps. “Lift on three. One, two-”

“Macca, did you pack my cornflakes?” John yells suddenly.

“Ya should’ve packed it your own goddamn self!”

Ringo heaves his backpack onto his shoulder and groans.

“Still too heavy?” George asks.

“No, ‘s just-” he turns his head. The van’s disappearing as they walk into the grove, but John and Paul are now screaming at each other. He tries a half-chuckle. “The fuck did we get into?”

George shrugs. “ ‘m just hoping we make it out in one piece.”

“Me too.” Ringo adjusts his backpack. “Hey, d’you... d’you think they’re really gonna tie the knot?”

George unexpectedly snorts. But he shrugs again. “Only a matter of time.”

A small clearing appears: shady, but not shrouded. George pulls Ringo to the centre of it, and then John and Paul burst forth.

“Son of a fuck,” Paul seethes, phone above his head. “There’s really no signal.”

“Well what didja think?” John laughs. “Kiss yer Instagrams goodbye, baby!”

“Instagram’s not bond-worthy anyroad…” Paul lowers his phone. “Okay. The tent. Check for insects.”

“What?” Ringo asks.

“Never set up on top of an anthill,” says George. 

"Oh, _yes!"_ Paul nods at him like a chuffed teacher. "Nice to know that _someone's_ done their camp reading-"

"Piss off," groans John. 

~

John's less snappy when the tarp and tent are set up under a beautiful oak. He throws in his sleeping bag and instantly passes out on top of it. 

"Move," says George. He tries lifting John's ankles, and John lets out a HUGE snore.

Paul pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jesus fuckin' Christ." 

"I _told_ you he'd play this up," George says, narked. He tries tugging at him, but John barely stirs. "Ya gonna help me or what?"

"Course," says Paul. "But hey, I think Ritch needs a hand, y'know?"

"No I don't!" Ringo calls out from the grove. 

"Shuddup! You do!" 

George shoots past him and vanishes into the grove's opening. There's rustling and crunching of leaves underfoot, and then a shout of pure laughter. Paul stares at the trunks of trees that hide them from view. A quick burst of envy moves his gaze to the open flap of the tent: and John's turned onto his side, legs curled up, ready to be spooned. 

Paul kicks off his shoes. 


	4. john and paul talk about beds

George trips when he sprints through the grove and tackles Ringo onto the ground. The food pack sails from his arms and misses their heads by maybe an inch.

“...oww.”

“Oh shit, sorry-” George scrambles his knees out from between Ringo’s legs “-‘m so sorry-”

Ringo snorts. “Makin’ up for last night, are we?”

“Wh- last night?” George helps him to his feet. “Whaddaya mean?”

“Oh, uh, nevermind,” Ringo says quickly. He brushes leaves off his shirt and averts his eyes for the food pack. "How're John and Paul?"

"I dunno. Can't believe they still fancy each other."

Ringo only nods. Maybe he should've just sworn his mouth out. What kind of turd-for-brains creased up when their... partner... bashed them in the _dick?!?!?!?_ He scoops up the food pack sharpish.

"Soooo," he tries. "You getting somethin' from the van?"

"Paul said you needed a hand."

Oh, right. Fuck. "Um. I really... didn't," says Ringo. "ButI'mgladyou'rehere!"

George blinks.

"Y'know, 'cause- _damn_ , I sound like Macca- but you know. I'm... glad you're here. With me right now, I mean-"

George kisses his nose swiftly. The leaves on the ground turn back into green.

" 'm glad you're with me too," George smiles and turns back to the tent. It isn't until he's out of the grove does Ringo realise the food pack gone from his hands.

~

The tent feels like a slow-heating oven even after Paul lays down. He tries nudging John again, but his snores, if anything, are steadier. He strips off his jeans in frustration. No _never sit around in your pants_ rule.

“John.” Paul pokes him in the back with his foot, then a jab. John barely stirs. Paul lowers his face to John’s ear. “JOHN.”

The corners of his mouth turn up a _very_ blatant inch. Paul sighs deeply and moves to lie back down.

“Okay,” Paul closes his eyes. “I’m starting to think that we... y'know, should’ve jus’ stayed home.”

Silence. “I know you hate when we cancel our gigs, but… I just wanted to spend time, y’know?” says Paul. “With you. And with… the _kids_. Haha. Yeah?”

There’s a pause. “What kids.” Sounds of shifting. “I didn’t bring me guitar-”

Paul springs up and sits right on John’s stomach.

“What- what the fuck-”

“Oh, you’re awake,” Paul says sweetly as John’s eyes search the bare legs that lock on either side of his waist. “I thought you’d passed out. Was givin’ me worry lines.”

John laughs dryly. “So this is yer revenge?”

“Why? Want me off?”

“Obviously not,” John’s hands go up his thighs. “Think I’m startin’ to like camping, actually.”

Paul tries to be unmoved. The idea of cleaning the tent for Clapton pops up and makes him want to drop dead. John lets out a pouty sigh when he rolls off.

“Not now.”

“Awww.”

Paul closes his eyes again. His fringe is slightly damp.

“Did ya mean it though?” John brushes their elbows. “ ‘bout the… jus’ stayed home thing.”

“Well. I do miss our bed.”

“That’s a yes?”

“Oh yeah,” Paul kicks his legs up. “You find _this_ comfy?”

“Well, I got a sleeping bag,” says John. His eyes light up. “Hey, what if-”

“Still not in the mood.”

"Uh, no. I meant you should go get yours?”

“Oh.” Paul looks away. He reaches to open the tent flap. “My bad, my bad.”

“You gonna put on your jeans?”

“I’ll be quick-"

The tent flap opens. Paul falls back with a yelp. 

"Uh," says George. "Okay."

"I wasn't!" Paul finds himself blurting. 

"Wasn't what?" George tosses the bag he's carrying into the tent, and leaves. John giggles like a tickled bird, amplified by miles of trees and a tent- now that he looks properly- wasn't even all _that_ clean.

"Y'know what?" Paul says, zipping the tent flap shut. "Changed my mind."

John raises an eyebrow. Paul crawls on top of his stomach again and lowers the front of his waistband.


	5. george and ringo try to confess their love but-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! let's get back to attempting regular updates, okay? okay!
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Ringo holes up in the back of the van and tries to coil a rope he kicked into the mud. He swears under his breath. The van floor is mucky with remnants of cornflakes and god-knows-what like they’re a family of teething babes.

The heat in the van sweats him out. _T_ _hat_ morning after where George's lying _so close_ and wrapped up snug plays like a movie in his head. 

"So," he mumbles. "Whaddaya make of all this?"

Heat hallucination-George smiles at him sleepily. His hands cup Ringo's face.

"...okay."

Then there's a _clang_ from above. Ringo throws the rope at the van wall. The sunlight's still strong, but the windows are wet with slight rain and his neck's cricked. The back doors swing open and Ringo jolts up so fast, he actually hears the un-crick in his neck. Real-George's eyes widen. 

"Hello," Ringo tries. 

"Hey." George looks around. "I was wonderin' where you were."

"An’ here I am," Ringo chuckles. He starts scooching to the side. "C'mon, don't get drenched now-"

It hits him then that the side doors are also unlocked. But George clambers into the crampy boot, shuts the lid, and Ringo's reminded of a movie where the teens did it in the backseat. He has a fleeting memory that it also might've been a psycho flick, but who cares. George settles with his knees to his chest. 

"Remember when ya asked if I thought John and Paul were gonna tie the knot?" 

"Yeah?"

"Well. They've claimed the tent," says George. "As another of their marriage beds."

"What the fuck."

"I know, right!" George scoffs. "And they think _we're_ bad."

"...are we?" 

George shrugs. "I finally get what ya mean, though. From... just now."

"Huh?"

"You know, when...when I fell."

 _Oh._ "The... last night stuff? Aw, don't get it in a twist, I was jus'-"

"Did you want to?"

Ringo feels his heart spike up. _OF COURSE_ _-_ no. Wait.  _Yes, but I'm really really not only in it for yer body, you know??????????????????????????_

"Uhhh."

"Nevermind," George looks away. " 'm sorry."

"No," Ringo finds himself squeaking. "What on earth for?"

"I... Ringo, what _are_ we?"

"Whaddaya mean, what are we? Aren't we... us?"

"I mean- yeah, that. But what  _is_ us? Specifically-"

He doesn't finish. There's an odd rumbling noise that seems to be getting closer, like another van driving up in the distance. The tops of trees continue to sway in the rain.

George leans over the backseat. "The engine's on?"

The noise comes again, but this time it's distinctly a growl. A low, angry sound from someone- no, _something_ with an _enormous_ nose, Ringo should know! He stumbles onto his knees and raises his head to level with the rear windshield.  

"Oh, holy _shit-"_

~

Paul falls on his face when he makes to get off of John. His underwear's hung around his ankle like a chain.

"Ouch," says John. "No second wind, yer majesty?"

"Fuck off," Paul mutters. "We gotta clean up."

"Temper temper! Actual camp stuffs now, are we?" John laughs. "No complaints! Seein' we've broken in the tent nice and proper-"

"And Clapton will probably break _us,"_  Paul crawls over to his rucksack in the corner, "if we give this back with fuck stains all over it."

" _Fuck_ stains!" John exclaims amusedly. "That's _new!_ I like it."

Paul rolls his eyes. "Y'know how to soak with a towel, right?"

"Course."

Paul lifts pile after pile of clothes out the sack, but there are no towels. He cringes when John tips the rest of it out onto the tarp, but there's still not a towel in there. 

"I packed those myself," Paul says adamantly.

John chuckles. "Might be outside."

Paul pokes his head out the tent flap. They're completely alone with falling rain and waving branches, not even George or Ringo. Those bastards. 

"Let's call 'em."

"There's no signal. Remember?"

"Shit," Paul draws himself back in. "Right." 

"We should open up a McVities. See if Geo appears."

Paul smacks John on the knee. 


	6. john is (mostly) arse naked

George and Ringo flatten themselves against the backseat and try not to breathe. The wild boar paces the mud tracks under the van. Its snout brushes the back doors, which George quickly locks.

Ringo gulps. "Those don't eat people, right?"

"They're omnivores," George whispers.

"I don't know what that means."

"It means they'll try us the second we're down."

Ringo's already feeling the downest of downs, but half of him is fired up to skip over the seats and take the wheel. He peeps out the rear windshield again, and- the boar stares back. Its eyes and _tusks_ are shiny polish.

He sits back down. "Should we run?"

 _"No,"_ George hisses. "What if it chases us?"

"God _damnit_ I forgot. What now-"

The boar lets out a series of sudden whines. George grabs hold of Ringo and twists them both into the backseat, shushing furiously as the van rocks like a cradle.

Ringo bites his own cheek. One, two, four, nine, thirteen aeons pass. When the whines start dying down he and George lean forward, just so, and the boar has turned its back. It trots away into the bushes nearby, bum in the air.

“Fucking hell,” says George.

Ringo laughs shakily. "Ya don't say!"

"We need to shift camp," George reaches for the door handles. "We gotta get to John an' Paul-"

"You're going out there?” says Ringo, louder than before. “Why don't you jus' call 'em?"

"There's _no signal!"_ George snaps.

"There's a fucking huge _ELEPHANT PIG!"_ Ringo snaps back. "I'm jus' worried!"

"Well stop worrying! I'm not gonna fuckin' crumble!"

"But it's an ELEPHANT PIG!"

"You think I can't _deal_ with fuckin' elephant pigs? I've literally had _you_ up my fuckin' arse! I'm-"

The back doors fly open.

George and Ringo scream. John's holding the doors open with no pants on. 

"Ooh, pardon me," John says as if his balls aren't hanging out in the drizzle. "But we do need our bags."

George blinks rapidly. Ringo can't help but think of all the mozzies that are flying around.

"Cat got yer tongues?" John laughs. "C'mon now, not nice to keep a lady waitin'! An' in the _rain,_ too-"

~

Paul unzips the tent flap further when he spies John and George emerging from the grove. 

"Fucking finally-" 

"Get your pants on!" John yells. 

"But 'm still-"

"Jesus," John stops short of the tent's entrance, hands on hips. His dick is now so visibly limp that Paul has to bite his own lip. "Really? Now?"

"We have to move," George scrambles between them and scoops up some armfuls of bags. "We‘re not safe!”

"Wha- what's goin' on?" 

"Wouldn't you know! There's a fuckin' _boar,"_ John says accusatorily. "Geo and Ritchie nearly got fuckin' mauled in this forest _you_ chose, McCartney!"

Paul freezes. 

"We weren't nearly _mauled!"_   George protests. "We just saw it!"

"But still!" 

"I didn't know there'd be one!" shouts Paul. "The website didn't say!"

"Website schmebsite! We shouldn't fuckin' _be_ here!" John shouts back. "Let's go!" 

Paul glares at him while pulling on his pants. John and George tug the tent pegs and poles out and scamper through the grove, bags and canvas swinging from their arms and John's pants barely at his hips.

Paul's left with the tarp, damper by the second. Nature is a fucking prick. He keeps his eyes on the grove opening for John as he tries folding the tarp, preparing to curse him till the very edge of the land.

The rain lightens as if on command, and the grove opening stays dark. As dark as John's eyes when his neck was kissed. Paul takes the glasses off his nose, gentle and slow-

"FUCK! YOU!" Paul shouts at the trees. The sky grumbles with a creak of thunder.

~

Ringo leans out the driver's window and screams at Paul to hurry. The van reverses out the forest trail and speeds down on concrete, along a stretch of shadowy trees. 

Silence seeps through the vents and spreads everywhere. George does his seatbelt and tightens it til it runs out. John sticks his head out the window and squints behind them, as if they were being tailed. The road is bumpy when the concrete ends, and John falls back into his seat. 

"I think we lost it."

"Was it even _there?"_ Paul questions, eyes lidded. 

"Yes it was," says John. "You shoulda seen the size of them footprints."

"Footprints?" Paul's tone is that of a crunching leaf. "You didn't even see the actual boar?"

"Therereally was a boar," George says, voice low. "Please stop shouting."

 _"See?"_ John shouts. "I _told_ you we wouldn't last ten fuckingminutes! You jus' can't let it rest, can you?"

"Look who's talking!" Paul shouts back. "Remember your fucking _bet?_ Or those cookies when you can hardly even-"

"Why the _fuck_  are you bringin' that up? You know I hate that!"

_"Exactly!"_

George yanks the handbrake. The van gallops heavily over another bump. Ringo pulls at the wheel in time and Paul slams his nose against the headrest of the driver's seat.

"What in the _fuck-"_

"Geo," Ringo gasps. "What're you-"

"I said _stop,"_ George narrows his eyes at Paul. "We came here to _bond,_  ring a bell? And look at the _state_ of you!"

Paul looks away, swiping spitefully at his face. 

"Turned out peachy, huh?" John grins. "Wanna call it a day?"

A flash of hurt comes over Paul's face. Ringo recalls that same face in ruined makeup, but still smiling. Eyes so wide they could water. John was in charge again. 

Then Paul grabs his shoulder, face to face. His eyes are dry. 

"Ringo. Lemme drive some."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i get the gut feeling that this fic feels somewhat different compared with the other three. is it? i'd appreciate some input on this.)


	7. ringo is arse-naked again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note to self, never begin a series the year before college. 
> 
> i'll try my best to finish this. thanks for sticking around!

John sniggers as Ringo and Paul swap seats. The rain clears and Paul makes a turn that puts them in front of yet another grove. This one is darker and deeper.

“Very funny,” says John. “Why’re we back?”

Paul stops the van. “We’re on the other side of the woods.”

“Oh _really?_ Ye expect us to believe north south east west each come with their own little tree caves? You’re a riot, Macca.”

Paul flings a folded map at John’s face. He gets out, slams the door, and starts off down the grove. George closes his eyes with a sigh.

“He’ll be back,” says John. “He’s not gonna make us carry all this shit by ourselves-”

~

Ringo bends his knees when the tent bag threatens to slide off. George’s back crowds with shit that isn’t his, and John curses as the food pack comes down on his foot.

“The FUCK’S in this thing?!”

“Gold bars,” says George.

John curses at him. George walks in lead, deaf as stone. Wind picks up through the grove and Ringo needs to piss. He takes quicker steps.

"Macca!" John shouts after he's out of insults. "You there, Macca? I have all yer _shit!_ You better come get it!"

Nothing but silence.

 _"Before I tip 'em all out!"_ he adds. Still silence. _"I mean it!"_

Ringo dashes past, out the grove. Paul's at a far end chewing gum and looking up a tree like it's a bedroom ceiling, fuck-all eyes in full glory. Ringo drops the tent bag at his feet and wades into the bushes.

It’s a bad idea. The sun’s on the edge of set and he’s surrounded by leaves so dark and so dead they cracked. He wades deeper as John’s taunts sound out, but barely. He and Paul would never tie the blasted knot if they knew better. Ringo wipes his brow and drops his pants.

It’s an unbelievably long, stuffy piss. He swats hard at some blue fly-cricket on his arse, but only when it stings does he realise it’s his tattoo.

Oh, right.

Ringo imagines himself pulling down his pants in the parlour, dickbutt in full view, pointing at George, _this fella on that._ His face heats up. He wills himself to hurry up-

A bush crackles loudly. 

"SHIT," Ringo screams, falling right onto the ground. "PAUL! PAUL!!! _RUN AWAAAAAAAAAY!"_

Then George comes into view, pushing through the bush. Ringo screams louder. 

"IT'S ME!" George screams back. 

"OH," says Ringo. "You scared me!"

" 'm sorry," George laughs awkwardly. "...ya need some help there?"

Ringo plonks his arse onto the nearest green thing and closes up his legs. "Nah."

"Okay," George scratches his neck. "So."

"So."

"I'm sorry I snapped."

"Huh? When?" 

"Just now..." George comes closer. "...and for comparin' yer dick to a boar."

" 's fine," Ringo tries not to laugh. "Thanks."

George chuckles lightly. Ringo considers the race time it'd take to do up his pants and land a kiss. He sighs instead, hand on the leaves. "Now what 'bout the other stuff?"

George stops. 

"I mean the, uh,  _us_ thing." Ringo gets a kick of heat up his back, almost itchy. "You always said I should jus' _say_ it, so... what are we-"

George suddenly swears. 

"Get up, quick-"

"What the heck?"

"Ringo, that's- that's poison ivy!"

Ringo blinks. He stands up and takes one look at his arse. Just above his tattoo is a mass of tiny red blotches, shiny, spreading-

~ 

"What was _that?!"_  John screeches. "Oh Jesus, we're fuckin' cursed-"

Paul snatches up the torch, heavy steel. He gets out of the tent and inches closer to the bush, hands raised above his head. 

_"Macca!"_

"Come help me then!" shouts Paul. The bushes continue rustling and John is behind him with a large paperback.

"Oh god, there's more than one."

"I'll try distractions," Paul tests the torch. "Pack the stuff."

"You crazy?! I jus’ got here!"

"For _fuck's_ sake, John-"

George bursts through the bushes, Ringo and his entire naked arse clinging to his arm.

Paul's mouth drops open. 

"What... happened?" asks John. 

"Poison," Ringo says, choked up. 

"Poison ivy," says George. He rushes Ringo to the tent. "We need water, soap, bath soap-"

Paul feels a hot splash of rage in his bones. The torch falls to the grass. Ringo's dirty arse hits the tarp right on. 

"Got it!" John yells as he runs to the grove.

"Paul," George turns Ringo over on a towel. "You have mozzie cream, right?" 

 _ **There's** that fuckin' towel- _"Um, yeah."

"Where is it?"

Paul sighs. He gets in the tent, and is greeted with Ringo's whitish, GROSS hives.

"How'd you even get it on _there?"_

Ringo instantly covers the scars on his back. "I dunno!"

"Oh fuck," whispers George. "Your hand-" 

"Wha- which one?"

"Oh I get it!" Paul chuckles deliciously. "Ya used it as loo roll!” 

"Sod off! Which hand!"

"Left," George glares at Paul. "Where's your cream?"

"Same place you nicked my towel."

"Now what's with _that_ tone? Your friend's havin' a fuckin' stroke!"

"Wait, what?" Ringo turns his head.

"I forgot the word," says George.

"And I forgot my torch," Paul says sweetly as he spots John running out the grove, gallon jug and soap cake in tow. He slips on his shoes. 

~

"Hey Ringsy, how's yer dingsy?"

"What the fuck, John."

"No really, how is the dingsy?" John asks. "Didja get any on it?"

"No!"

"Phew! Good! That's national treasure, ya know!"

"What? My-"

"Yes!"

Ringo lets out a groan. He rubs more soap into another of Paul's towels and wipes himself again. 

John suddenly laughs. "Oh hey! I forgot 'bout the arse tattoo thing!"

Ringo wraps the towel around his waist quick. George buries his nose reading the back of the cream tube.

"Such a saviour!" John continues. "We were startin' to think the both of ya would never be! Nothin' more than bedmates- _literally-"_

 

Ringo blinks. 

_Your rings._

_Didn't want cold hands._

Ringo peers at George, and then his left hand now, where the rash is snaking up his fingers and spilling over the ring bands.  

~

Paul leans against an oak behind the tattered bush, tapping his foot. He opens a game on his phone and immediately closes it. He refreshes every social media and snorts when nothing loads. He's happy at last, no bonding necessary. He should've done this years ago.

John's not looking for him, but John always expects to be _found,_ stupid fuck, Paul chuckles behind his hand. But only once. He can't spit in those eyes. He'd sob and beg John's forgiveness.

I love you, Paul mouths. John's bitch face intrudes then, and makes him want to eat his words. Stupid fucker bets, games, dares. And then some.

Paul exhales deeply. He walks deeper, eyes up to the trees.

 _Look, John-_ no.

 _Johnny, darling, my_ \- no, wait

John, I'm sorry I dragged you here. I'm sorry I fuck-stained Clapton's tent. I'm sorry the internet didn't tell me of _every single fucking living thing they have in their fuckin' forest and WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LIVE A LITTLE AND LET ME-_

A snap of leaves. The ground beneath Paul's feet opens like a mouth, and swallows. 


	8. sCREM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the long wait. jeez. even i hate how long this took. let's get back to it, shall we?

“...aND when I walked in on you two-” John draws a breath, but splutters giggling- “Halle-fuckin’-lujuah!”

“You done?” Ringo asks tiredly. The towel grows itchier by the second and his hand is fucking bURNING from being ringless. Oh, and rash.

“No! Both of you’s no idea how long Paul and I have been waitin’ for this!” John removes his glasses to wipe invisible tears. “Aww, young love!”

George unzips the tent flap. “Get _out.”_

John giggles even louder, but he pushes himself to his knees and crawls out, making sure to WINK as he does, too. George flips him the bird and zips up half the tent flap before he suddenly stops. He turns, sharp, glances at Ringo.

Ringo blinks. 

“Sorry,” George blurts, opening the flap again. 

“ _Nonononono_ ,” blurts Ringo. His mind is racing. “I, uh, dunnowhatmozziecreamdoes.”

“What?”

“I dunno what mozzie cream does,” Ringo chuckles awkwardly. “Or _why_ mozzie cream, I mean, ‘s poison ivy, so… help me out?” 

“Okay-”

“Please?” Ringo blurts again. He then wills himself to sink right through the tarp, out of sight.

George doesn’t seem to notice. “So poison ivy is poison ‘cause of the oil, y’see? Mozzie cream, or calamine, is supposed to help cool the itch,” he pushes the tube to Ringo’s feet. “Alright?”

“Right,” says Ringo. “So I just… spread it on there?”

George bites his lip. “Yeah.”

“Do I need clothes after I use it?”

“You wanna walk round with yer arse out?” 

“Would- would it be better?”

“Yes. Um, _maybe?_ It depends. It might get itchier really, I can’t exactly say-”

And he doesn’t. The pause is so long Ringo feels he’s sunken to the center of the Earth. The tent’s growing way too big.

He grips the towel tight. “You alright?”

“Fan-fuckin _-_ tastic.”

“Gear,” Ringo shifts himself to kneel. “So, what do _you_ think we are?”

George's head snaps up.

“What?”

“Oh c’mon, don’t you _what_ me-”

Then he winces. A thorny pain comes over his hand. He’s dug his nails into what used to be the rash on his thumb, and red blotches blot the lumps of skin.

“...shit.”

“Oh- oh, sweet Lord,” George snatches up the tube and grabs Ringo's wrist. "Bloody hell."

" 's not _hell,"_ Ringo half-chuckles. "I'm a drummer."

"Pack yer beat in, then," George squirts a glob of cream into Ringo's palm. "Hold still-"

Ringo bites the inside of his cheek and wills his heart to please cALM ITS TITS. It doesn't help that George is biting his lip _aGAIN_ as he rubs the stuff over his fingers, smoothing down flaps of torn skin _._ Odd way to hold hands- what is this, the movies?

 _We should go see it sometime,_ Ringo moans one early morning as George lowers himself into him, half-woken and wonderful in wafty pieces of light. _But ‘s that director we, ah, hate._

_Oh- we? What's that 'bout?_

_Maybe ‘s jus’ me, really-_ gods, _Geo-_

“What’s with that… that _what are we_ biz,” Ringo clenches the towel with his free hand, like it's a brace. “You splittin’ up with me?”

“No, _no,”_ George says, but stops. He stares at their hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“It’s jus’ - well, I’ve been thinkin’ bout us a lot. Like, a whole lot.”

"Oh."

“And it’s been _bangin’_ -”

"It has."

“But do you like me?” George blurts, eyes shut. 

Ringo blinks. 

“We’re… dating.”

George opens his eyes. “...but do you like _like_ me?”

“Geo, I _literally_ said I love you first-”

“You did?” 

_“You don’t remember?!”_

The tent flap zips open loudly. 

George and Ringo scream. George yeets the opened tube through the flap, and it sails cleanly over John's head as he pokes through. 

"What the-"

"Jesus," John rolls his eyes. Then he smirks, eyebrows a-waggle. "Was I intrudin'?"

"Oh, shit, no," George's slicked hand leaves Ringo's and goes behind him. "No-" 

"Uh, _no,"_  Ringo pretends. He feels his arse flare up just then, sandy against the poor towel. "Why'd ya think that?"

John pauses dramatically. "...several reasons."

"Oh, fuck off," says George. 

"I would, ya can _bet_ on it," John nods. But then his smirk quickly fades. "Have you seen Paul?"

George blinks. "I thought he was gettin’ his torch."

"Well that's the thing," John unzips the tent further and drops a long, metal torch onto the tarp. It lands with a low thud.

~

Paul's heart continues doing backflips even after he's hit the ground. His breathing hitches and cringes with pangs of now-mildewy air, a wet, spongy smell, but calms because it's enough proof that he hasn't died and fallen into Hell. Oh, sweet _sweet_ Mary. 

As he pushes himself to sit his elbow screeches. He fumbles for his phone and turns on the light. A slim red tear rounds above his bruised elbow, leaking a little trickle onto- small stones. The phone light goes higher. Above his head is a dark hole, on top of one darker wall that circles him like a bottle- a fucking dry well. 

Paul screams. Help, George, John, Ringo. He kicks stones against the wall. The phone light flashes short, long, short, SOS. He kicks more stones against the wall while screaming. When his throat starts to raw he sits on his pile of stones, breathes in, and starts to cry. 

Being alone in the flat? _A luxury,_ he whispers. Early mornings when breakfast was ready the night before and he didn't have to mother any-sleeping-fucking-body. Coming here had been a huge mistake hadn't it. He can _hear_ John right in his ears, mocking everything. 

Shut up, Paul mouths, scrabbling for the gum in his pocket.

_Aw, c'mon! No one does that-_

Paul pops three pieces of gum into his mouth and gnaws, chin high. 

 

_~_

"MACCA!" John shouts to the trees. "Macca! You can come out now! As in _actually_ come out! Body an’ all!”

 _“Paul,”_ George calls into the bushes. “Come back-”

“You’re scarin’ the _fuck_ outta me, Macca!”

“Paul!” Ringo shouts. “Come back for yer towel!”

“Christ, Ritch, we’re tryin’ to get him _near_ ,” John says slowly. “Not scare him away-”

"I'll wash it for ye!" Ringo adds, hitching it further up his waist. "Soon!"

John scoffs. 

"PAUL," George calls again. Crickets chirp all around. He lets out a sigh.

"We should split up," Ringo says. 

John stares at him. Then at George.

"Wha-"

“To, uh, cover more ground,” Ringo tries. “You know? Like, in the movies-”

“Are you fucking serious?” John lowers Paul’s torch. “ _Movies?!_ What if _we_ get lost? Huh? Fancy runnin’ back to London solo?”

 _“No,_ I was thinking-”

“ 'bout _time,"_ John laughs dryly. "But what if, what IF we do, huh Ringsy? Did ye not see a fuckin' _boar?_ What if they smashed one of us up cause  _nobody_ was there to-"

“What the hell is up with you?” George cuts in. _"You're_ the one who didn't see the boar!"

John blinks fast. "Yeah, well, you know what _I've_ seen? MOVIES. When the fuckers split up in the forest they always FUCKING die _."_

"Yeah? Well if you have a _better_ idea I'd love to _FUCKING_ hear it!" 

John flinches. Ringo's hand feels slicky though he swears the cream's dried. 

"You've been a right fuckin' _prick_ to Paul," George spits. _"You're_ the one who can't let it rest! D'you know how much he wanted this? To jus' spend some time away?"

"Calm the _fuck_ down," John shouts. "You're not- you're not the only one who cares-"

"THEN START ACTING LIKE IT!"

John's jaw drops to the forest floor, among the leaves that crack as George kicks them wading to the nearby bushes. The crickets have all shut their yaps. 

"What- the fuck jus' happened?" John whispers. "Is this new?"

Ringo fixes on the towel. "I... dunno."

"How d'you not know? He's yer-"

"There's a _lot_ I don't know," Ringo's hands go up, half a surrender. He switches his phone light on. "I'll take the trees over there."

~

Paul's stomach takes over his anger after a bit. He's stuck all of the gum onto the wall and leans up next to it, phone light up again. 

_So when you're near me, darling can't you hear m-_

"John," Paul whispers. It's a habit. "John, John, they're playin' your song..."

The phone light flashes another three shorts and two longs before Paul feels a surge. He opens Spotify and tips the speaker upwards as it blasts his ABBA playlist at full volume. 

Dancing Queen, disappointingly, plays weak against the wet, heavy air of the well. Paul hurriedly shovels more stones into the pile for him to stand on, and starts screaming along.

 _"- FRIDAY NIGHT AND THE LIGHTS ARE LOW!"_ More stones. _"LOOKING OUT FOR A PLACE TO GOooOOOOOO_ - _fUCK-_ " 

His cut elbow scrapes the wall as he slips. The stones tumble, tinkle as some of the pile collapses. There's creaks coming from up there. 

 _"Night is young an' the music's high,"_ Paul continues, blowing short puffs at the sting. _"With a bit of_ ooooooOWWWWWWWWwwwwwwWWWWWwwwwwWWW-"

"...Paul?"

Paul feels the opposite of a freeze. He scrambles up what's left of the pile.

 _"Yeah!"_ he shouts, voice choppy. "I'm down here! _HERE!_ OVER FUCKING HERE-"

"Wh- _where??"_  

 _"Ringo?"_ Paul shouts back in surprise. Whatever. He's practically ready to eat the stones. His phone light goes as far as he can reach, flashing and flashing. As more stones slide Ringo's baby blues appear at the mouth of the hole, and he's never felt more relieved. 

 _"Paul!"_ His phone light points down at his face. "What're you- how'd ya get in there?"

ABBA stops. "Fell in," Paul shields his eyes. "What else?"

"You alright?"

"A scratch," Paul lifts his elbow up. "I'll live."

"God, that's bleedin', ain't it? How long have you been down there?"

"Fuckin' long enough."

"Okay, 'm gettin' everyone else," Paul realises then that Ringo's probably lying on his chest up there, arse naked in the towel. "Stay there."

"Har har _har."_

"Oh, right, sorry-" he stands up. A flutter of white fluff appears. Bingo! "I'll bring back a plaster-"

"And nosh. Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few days ago i stumbled across my notebook from last december, where i planned this whole series. it was (so far) an appalling 20+ fics long, all written following real-time. and as you can see, it didn't work out, it is july and this camp trip takes place in LATE JANUARY ffs. so from now on i'll place the time on everything else following this fic to avoid too much confusion! :>


	9. sCREM pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pure action. pure screm. fluff and funny shit to follow next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school is shit, the weather is balls, and i'm so pissed that it took 2 weeks to update this! i had this more or less ready on monday night, but was hit with assignments that gave me no time to edit properly. 
> 
> but here it is now, and i hope you enjoy! thanks for sticking around :>

George, too, is rightfully shocked seeing Paul in the hole, and is all for one sec before he and Ringo have to grab John’s elbows. Ringo wants to say he’s surprised, maybe as a quip, but won’t. He’s barely scraping his own surface now, let alone Lennon-McCartney’s- and _can’t_ , because John’s sopping shoulder slams him right in the nose. 

 _“Paul!”_ John wails. His top half leans right over the hole.

“What,” Paul shouts back. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ _WHAT_ me, Macca!” John’s shoulder bashes Ringo’s nose again. “You’re down a fuckin’ _well-”_

“Oh, really? I jus' noticed!” 

“Have you now?” John sneers harshly. “Was it before or _after_ ye sliced yer arm?” 

“Ringo,” Paul yells. “You got my stuff?”

“Now don't you be givin' me yer cold eyes,” John shakes both George and Ringo off in one swift move. He himself is shaking, staring down the hole with his knees spread right apart. If Paul hadn't been in the hole, it would've been a _great_ laugh. George stays close, brows furrowed. Ringo rubs his nose and picks the box of plasters off the grass.

Paul scoffs. " _Me?_ Cold? Take a good _look,_ John! I ain't a mirror! Who's been an _ARSE_ 'bout this whole trip?? _Oh, Pauly,"_ he says in a spot-on Lennon drawl, _"Mimi says you're barmy,_ barmy-"

"And so do I! You've landed yerself down a fuckin’ well!"

"THAT'S QUITE _CLEAR,_ THANK YOU!"

"YOU HURT ANYWHERE ELSE?”

"STOP _FUCKING_ SHOUTING AT ME!"

"YOU HURT ANYWHERE ELSE THOUGH?"

"HE SAID _STOP,"_ George shouts. "YOU DEAF?"

"I DON'T REMEMBER ASKIN' YOU A GODDAMN THING!" John shouts louder. 

"WHY ARE YOU QUOTING PULP FICTION??" Ringo shouts even louder. Then silence. John and George stare at him. Then at the food pack, hanging sprawled on his back. 

"Um, _hello,"_ Paul calls out, waving his phone light. " 'm bleedin' here!"

"I gotcha," Ringo pulls the pack off, gets on the ground. He sticks his hand in the hole and drops the plaster box in. "Ya need tissues?"

John makes a sudden choked-up noise. He coughs as he turns his back to the hole. 

"No," Paul says, peeling the wrap off a plaster. "You have food?"

Ringo unzips the pack, holds up a packet of trail mix with his good hand. 

"And water?" 

The packet goes down the hole. Ringo digs through the rest of the food, tossing out Ziplocs of sweets, a box of cornflakes, and some apples. 

"Uh- gimme a sec-"

George appears next to him then, and unzips the pouch opposite his. He pulls out a tiny plastic bottle and drops it in. 

"Thanks."

Ringo's shifted onto his knees, cushioned by fluff and grass. Paul's towel is no longer white. He peers up at George, whose torch is pointing down the hole.

"Ya patched up yet?"

Paul, guzzling water, lifts his elbow. His scratch is covered with two plasters. 

"Okay," George breathes in relief. "Anythin' else ya need?"

"My sleepin' bag," Paul says, eyes sad. He caps his bottle. "An’ a charger."

"You're not sleepin' down there. I won't have it."

Paul blinks. Maybe it's because of George's torch, but he simply sighs. 

"We're gettin' you outta there, ya hear me?" 

"Okay."

"Want some more food?" George's hand reaches out to Ringo's. They send a Ziplocked apple down the hole. John trudges over to them, sniffling with shudders. Paul sits on his pile of stones, head down. 

"Well," he says. "How 'bout that."

"Bout what?" asks Ringo. 

John ignores him. He sits with his knees against his chest, and stares down at the top of Paul's head like a gatekeep. Ringo rubs his nose. Boy, was _this_ a story for Elsie-

"Rope," George says suddenly.

"What?"

"The van," George stands up. "There was rope in the back, remember?"

Ringo's arse starts itching. He stands up too, shoving the apples and Ziplocs back in the pack. "There was?"

"Yeah! I remember!"

 _No you dON'T_ , Ringo's brain screams, before everything clicks into place. _"Oh."_

"Paul!" George calls into the hole. "Eat up, you're gonna climb! Ya hear?"

Paul, head still down, makes a thumbs-up. John's gaze turns on them both.

"Uh, you stay," Ringo says, brushing his hands on the towel. " 'kay?"

John grunts, but he stays. Ringo hastily zips the food pack up, gathers the leftover Ziplocs in his hand.

"Be good."

"Fuck off, Starkey."

“John,” says George, warily glancing at the deep darkness that is the hole. “Just… _please.”_

John blinks. If there was one thing they always agreed on, it was Paul. He rolls his eyes, shifts himself just a bit. 

“John. John.” 

“What-”

George yeets the box of cornflakes smack at John’s face. Then he takes off into the bushes.

~

Ringo, of course, takes off after him. Shouts of _what the fuck Hazza_ echo through the leaves and wind, until he reaches an area with brambles too thick for words to float through. 

The crickets are loudly chipper again, and Ringo suddenly feels more exposed than ever. As if he hasn’t just spent two hours-ish in only a shirt and towel. His phone light comes out and shows George a few feet away, long legs step-by-stepping over shrubs and everything else like he knows the place. 

“Oi,” Ringo pants. “Wait up, I can’t go fast-”

“Why’d you bring the bally pack then?” George huffs.

Ringo can’t say he’s surprised. It’s been a long day, they could’ve been wild boar-ed and Paul could’ve broken his pretty neck- sURE, none of it actually happened, but the very thought hovers over the forest like a black cloud.

“I was actin’ fast,” Ringo says, pulling the pack’s straps to free it from between narrow tree trunks. He’s sweating a storm under their leaves. If he squints, they could be legs, and he desperately tries to think of anything but. Or the itch in his bum.

“Fine,” says George. His torch fixes on one point at last, and he picks his way through. 

Ringo fastens the towel, licks his dry lips. “So… uh... we use the rope?”

“Yes.” 

“An’ then we drive home?”

George pauses for a bit, but then nods. “Paul needs his fuckin’ _bed,_ that’s what.”

“Want me to pack the tent?” Ringo asks. “While ya fetch the rope?”

“If you can fold the poles an’ all-” George suddenly stops. 

“Yeah, Paul showed me how-”

George grabs Ringo’s shoulder and pushes them both down. The food pack crashes down on Ringo’s poor back. But he doesn’t curse- not yet- because George’s torch casts a dim light over the bush to the tent, their campsite, and **_FOUR_ ** wild boars. Their tusks are  _glowing_ in the light that’s there, and their growls sound like the van’s engines on full blast. 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Ringo groans.

George’s eyes narrow into slits. He draws his torch back, holds it still behind the bush. It’s not very thick and most of the leaves are dead, but right now they’ve gotten WAY too close. 

The boar nearest the tent growls. Its snout digs into the canvas with a zippy-sounding bump. It can either smell them or has a stuffy nose, Ringo knows. He’s holding a lot of things in. 

“ _Okaaaaay_ ,” George whispers, inching the slightest bit backwards. “If we stay zipped, we should get to the van alrigh-“

Ringo lets out an **eXTREMELY LOUD** fart.

The boars all turn around. The worst, deepest grunts _ever_ fill the air. Ringo feels his arsehole shrivel shut. 

 _“WHAT THE FUCK,_ RICHARD!” 

 _“Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry-”_ Ringo begins to yell, heart shooting miles. The boars aren’t charging yet, but their tusks are flashing _so close_ \- George slams the torch off. He snatches Ringo’s rash hand and squeezes it as they bolt back into the trees. 

~

Paul remains remarkably still, and John curses the gloom for making him feel so guilty. His cornflakes lie unopened at his feet. Paul’s dark head leans against the smelly wall. 

John's mind starts wandering, never a good sign- what if he’d kissed Paul back at the table? Not complained about the tent, about _anything_ because if so Paul wouldn’t have dashed into the forest and tumbled down a fucking _well,_ that’s what. 

He imagines Paul’s body pierced onto the tiny rocks, ripping open his elbow (fuck Ringo, he’d made it out that Paul’s whole _arm_ had come off), and slaps himself out of it. Paul still hasn’t moved from his spot when John leans just the slightest over, the torch fully lit. 

“Macca,” he tries. 

Paul’s eyes turn up at him. Turn back. John moves the torch closer to himself. 

“Hi Macca.”

Paul sighs, takes an infuriatingly long nibble of his apple. 

“Your makeup’s smudgy.”

Paul turns his head then. _“What?”_

 John gestures to his own eyes. “You cried.”

Paul doesn’t reply. He opens selfie mode on his phone and instantly hisses. The runny ends of mascara-eyeliner-whichever stream his cheeks and he swipes at them with his one free knuckle. From his fingers the apple dangles flimsily.

“How fuckin’ long,” he seethes, “have you been sittin’ quiet, staring-”

“If I told ye, you’d get into a fuss!”

“No shit, John! Why’re ye only tellin’ me _now?”_

The stem of the apple snaps. The white flesh of it could pass for one of the rocks it lands amongst.

John waits a beat, two, before he clears his throat. “Because-”

Paul curls in on himself. John braces for a Macca scream, but it doesn’t come. He inches the torch down cautiously. Paul is lying next to it, feet tucked. He looks peaceful at first glance; maybe he's sleeping on his side, but the lines of his body shake. 

“Oh, baby,” says John, leaning further into the well.  “Don’t do that now.”

“ ‘m tired.”

“Geo an’ Rings are comin’ back.”

“ ‘m really tired.”

“You’re gonna get blisters on yer face!”

A pause. “ ‘s ruined anyroad.”

_“Paul!”_

“What.”

John pauses. His insides feel floody. 

“ ‘m sorry I’m such a git.”

A grunt. 

“ ‘m sorry?” John repeats, but midway there’s another grunt, obviously too deep to be Paul’s. John shines the torch at the shrubs that surround the well, but nothing’s moving but him and air. 

“Knock it off,” Paul grumbles.

“ ‘s not me, mate,” John says, voice getting higher. 

The noise gets closer and louder. John’s up on his feet now, scanning the area in strobe circles. Paul sits up after one too many lights fall in his eyes. 

“Lenny.” 

“D’you hear that??” John yells, keeping his torch fixed on some low-swaying leaves. The wind’s picked up, but it's not what's chilling him. 

“I hear _you,”_ says Paul. 

 _“George!”_ John yells again. “An’ _Ringo_ \- if this is you's idea of a laugh, then it’s fucked up ya hear? Jus’ like the pair of ya-”

A  _huge_ pig bursts into John’s light. The world freezes. It looks as if its mother had been a dirty circus elephant.  The ~~pig~~ _**BOAR**_ fucking snorts at him as it gets closer.

John screams.  _"jESUS MARY JOSEPH!"_

"JESUS MARY _WHAT?!"_ screams Paul. 

The boar flares its _huge_ nostrils. If it were a human, it would be a smoke-deprived bum on the street. And it's eyeing the torch in John's hand like it's the fattest cig in the world.  He nearly steps back into the well. He catches a glimpse of Paul, eyes smeary and mouth wide. _Is that the-_

John puts his index to his lips and nods. 

 _Oh, fuck,_ Paul mouths.

 _I'll-_ the boar is snarling now, and John's brandishing the torch like a sword- _I'm comin' back for you._

 _YOU BETTER!_   _NOW_ FUCKING _GO-_

 John throws the torch at the boar and charges past it, into the bushes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cliffhangers! my besties!
> 
> (and reviews would be lovely!)


	10. ringo, oh ringo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy *checks calendar* wednesday! its been AGES and i am super sorry from not being able to update this as often as i'd liked. but here it is, and thanks for sticking around! you can expect much more coming from me this month. i'm writing hp stuff (mostly wolfstar if you're into that sorta thing) and i have a new mclennon fic called [off-season](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465141/chapters/48559073) , also a modern au. 
> 
>  
> 
> aNYWAY, shameless self-promo over, here's the rest of these idiots. enjoy! :>

Many sharp branches later George and Ringo are still scrambling through the forest, far from the van and the rope. George’s torch is still off. Ringo’s hand goes numb quickly in George’s and the growls continue to chase them- no, it _follows_ , slow and almost teasing. They’d invaded territory and now they were outnumbered. 

George’s zig-zagging through all the shrub and bush like he’s _meaning_ to get lost. Ringo wills himself to be cool, _be cool,_ and a breeze hits his face. George’s led them down to a parting of trees where the moon is shining bright. They duck behind a nearby trunk and sink to the ground, panting and sweating buckets. 

“Fuck,” George mutters. His hand reaches for Ringo’s shoulder, but drops back to his side. _“Fuck-”_

Ringo feels his lower half loosen _finally._ _“_ Ah, Christ-”

They sink further into the cracks of the musky trunk. Just a few days ago this had been a whole other shebang on their bed, ignoring Paul’s shouts for them to come get their brekkie. And now they might die in the forest. Oh, _joy!_

Ringo shrugs the food pack off his shoulders and retrieves his phone from one of its pouches. It’s barely half past nine. 

“Are you _serious,”_ George hisses, leaning over his shoulder.

Ringo shrugs. He swipes up to toggle the phone light on. A cracking sound cracks at the corner of his ears. 

George shoots upright. Ringo yelps- more twigs snap and George’s hand clamps down hard on his mouth. 

“mmm _mmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_ MMMMMMM-“

 _“No,"_ pleads George. He pulls them both around the trunk and back against it.  Ringo tries not to look down. George’s middle finger is literally in between his _very wet_ lips, and still smells of that calamine cream. 

“If you need to fart,” he hisses again, “Do it now.”

Ringo tries not to laugh. Because then his tongue would stick _right_ into George’s finger. He can’t think of anything that could send an even wronger message.

George gears his torch up and holds it to his side, steps away to look behind the trunk. His other hand releases Ringo’s mouth, dragging with it a trail of warm breath.

ffffffffFFFfFffFfFffFUCKING SHIT BLOODY HELL NO NOT NOW, _WE MIGHT_ DIE _IN THE FOREST_ , Ringo head-yells at his greatly stiffening groin. His phone goes back in the pack, zipped tight. The wind stops then, and everything goes quiet. George turns back with a hint of a smile.

“Sup fuckers,” says John.

George and Ringo scream. As the torch drops, George’s foot swings square into Ringo’s dick. Ringo screams the whole forest down as John backs up from them, his face a whole balloon of laughs held in. 

“OOOOO _OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWwwWWWWWWW_ WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!” he cries. 

“Fuck- oH FUCK,” George reaches to steady him. “ ‘M SO SORRY-”

“MY DICK,” shouts Ringo. 

“Your dick!” laughs John.

“Jesus fuckin CHRIST,” Ringo moans. “WHY.”

“What the fuck- the fuck’s _wrong_ with you?” George quickly jabs at John. “Sneakin’ on me like that! _Us,_ like that!”

“Oh my god,” Ringo continues moaning. “ ‘s comin’ off, ‘s _fucking_ comin’ off-”

“What?!”

_“ ‘s goin’ numb-”_

John gasps dramatically. Then he’s screaming laughing. _“Richard’s lost his Richard!”_

“Wh- what the _fUCK??!”_

“Oh, Lord,” George whispers before he doubles up scream-laughing too in a _horrible_ betrayal. Ringo, now clutching his painful throb of a dick the best he can through the towel, limps to lean against the tree. 

“You piece o' shit!”

“ ‘m sorry,” George splutters, now biting his cheeks. Ringo’s heart melts into mush and he turns away sharpish. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” John cuts in, “we have… a problem.” 

“Do we now!” George says, shooting upright. He doesn’t look like someone who’s just kicked their…...……… _datemate_ ……….......in the dick. “Lemme guess- it’s huge, ‘s ugly, and it starts with, A-B-C- _B_ , for _boar.”_

John coughs into his fist. 

“You… you too?” Ringo croaks. 

John’s eyes blow up. “YOU TOO?” 

 _“WHAT,”_ George’s eyes blow up too, caught in the middle. Before he stops still. _“Paul.”_

“Now, now,” John puts his hands out. “I can explain.”

“You left Paul _alone_ in the well!” 

"Technically he’s _been_ alone in there since ‘e fell in-”

“You left Paul _alone_ in a well with _BOARS_ walkin’ around!” 

Ringo gulps. He wonders if he should intervene. A flare of feeling, mostly pain, reemerges in his crotch just then, and roots him to where he’s standing.

“Paul _told_ me to go,” insists John, though his voice wobbles a bit. “I’ll have ye know I chucked the torch at it- so it’d follow _me,_ see? Yeah?”

“You threw the _what_ at the _what?!”_ George shouts. “Amazin’! Can you get any _more of a-“_

“Calm the fuck- no, just _calm down!”_ John yells. “The thing is! I made sure it followed me! _Me!_ It’s not gonna tumble in there with our Paulie-”

“There’s four of ‘em.”

John stops, his mouth mid-word. 

“They’re- they were near the tent,” George doesn’t shout anymore, but anger bubbles off him like boiling water. He bends to pick up his fallen torch, switches it off. The wind is making noise again. 

“Shit,” John says after the uncomfy pause. 

“Yeah, no shit!”

“At- at least they don’t eat people, right?” John chuckles even more uncomfortably. George and Ringo exchange a look. Ringo looks away first to stop his dick pain in private. "Right?????"

“Well,” George starts, “actually-“

A growl cuts through the breeze. 

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” Ringo seethes. John dashes past him and starts _climbing_ the fuckin’ tree, shoe soles scruffing against the bark. 

“What the fuck,” George questions, arms far out. 

 “Jus’ get as high as ye can-” John yells back “-I read them websites too!”

“I have no pants!” says Ringo. 

“Would ya rather have no legs?!” George yells. 

The growls increase. George’s up after John in a flash, and Ringo follows suit. The wind whips his hair and blows the towel out like a surrender flag. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a movement of black fur and white tusk, and it’s all he needs to start scrambling his legs, heart booming its way up his throat. 

John lets out a screech when his foot slips, but manages to climb onto a wide branch. He locks his legs, holds out his hands. It takes a lot of pull, pant, and biting down on teeth, but when it works Ringo’s squashed tight between John and George. A draft snakes up his legs and crawls up his suddenly _bare_ thighs. He peers down from the tree- 

and the shadows of boars are circling a white towel on the ground.

“Oh my _GOD,”_ says John, more amused than shocked. _“YOUR DICK!”_

“What ‘bout it?” Ringo asks, even though he already knows. 

“It’s.” His hand gestures wildly. “OUT.”

“Ya don’t say,” Ringo mumbles, sliding his hands under it and folding his legs over them the best he can. The tree bark is full of dark gaps and edges, and he prays that no insects crawl up his-

“It’s _grown_ ,” John remarks like a proud aunt at Christmas. “Jesus, Geo, how’re ya still _walkin’?”_

Ringo has a sudden exciting idea of shoving John off the branch. 

“I have legs,” George replies after an agonising quiet. “And I don’t always… you know, _take_ it-”

John smushes his hand against his mouth. George shushes him, makes himself smaller. Ringo’s mental prayers turn into frantic yelps as the boars sniff his towel and prod it with their snouts, but they’re _answered._ Shortly after when the furs disappear and the grunts become silence, the three of them release a huge breath. 

“Oh thank god,” says Ringo, leaning backwards into John before remembering that he’s very arse-naked.

“We gotta get to the van,” George says, shifting his legs over gingerly. 

“Oh, the rope! Right!” says John. “Careful now, we’re two men down-”

“What?” Ringo cuts in. “Two?? Who’s the other one?-”

George promptly falls off the branch. 

~

John and Ringo let out a shout, slippery hands and shoes skating down the trunk. George’s crashed face-up into a _thankfully_ thick bramble, sunken in it like a leafy bed. His breathing is rapid for a mo before it manages to steady. His hands come up to cover his face. 

“Kid,” John says cautiously. “Say somethin’.”

 _“Fuck,”_ groans George. 

“Wew!”

“Oh shit, shit," Ringo reaches over to help sit him up. ”You alright?????"

“I think,” George reaches back, and then he winces. 

“Somethin’s broken,” says John. 

In a hard swoop George swings his legs out of the bramble. John switches George's torch on and shines it at their faces.

“Which one?”

Ringo looks at him puzzledly. Even more so when George slides his right foot out like he’s following a command. John shoves the light at Ringo, kneels, and unties George’s trainer. At the base of his ankle is a bluish stripe. John makes a tutting sound as he inspects it.

“You’re fuckin’ twisting it,” George hisses.

“Sorry,” John turns to Ringo. “You brought any more of the first aid?”

The food pack, Ringo remembers. He’d stuffed a bunch of stuff in it after seeing Paul. 

“I’ll check-”

Ringo cheers when he finds the food pack safely covered by a large fern near their tree. As he digs through it George’s screams at John grow louder and varied. He opens every single pouch, sifts through the Ziplocs until he realises he has no clue what he’s supposed to get. 

“Oi,” he calls out. “What exactly-”

“Jus’ bring it here!” John yells. 

~

"Alriiiiiiiiiiight," John says in what's probably an attempt to nurse. " 'm gonna have to move it, so sorry in advance if I-"

_"Owww!"_

"Geo, I haven't moved it."

"I DON'T CARE. IT FUCKING _HURTS,"_ George says through his teeth. John shifts his ankle just an inch, and another wince. “I’ll kick _you_ in yer fucking face.”

“Well, seein’ as I’d probably _drop_ your poor, poor ankle,” John says calmly. “That ain't a smart idea, dear-”

“OW, _FUCK_  you-”

Ringo stands by awkwardly. Something in him feels off, the sight of George’s foot in John’s hands. It’s not a big deal, he tells his brain, _he_ wouldn’t know how to wrap the bandage if _he_ had to hold George’s ankle. John’s better here. 

His heart shakes its veins in _no no no, the arsehole’s_ twisting _it. He’s twisted in the head, he’s twisted up Macca, and now he’s going to-_

“There we go! Snug as a bug,” John makes a chef’s kiss that makes Ringo cringe. “All good to go. C’mere.”

He stands, leans in one arm for George to grab on to. Ringo instinctively catches up, shaking the towel out best as he can. 

“No. Turn ‘round,” says George.

“What?”

“ ‘m not supposed to put any weight on my _poor, poor_ ankle,” he says, head tilted. 

John blinks, frozen hopelessly in place. Ringo doesn't know why, but he almost laughs at him.

“Why- why not Ringo?” he suggests, as if recommending another dish on the menu. 

“He has an _arse rash,”_ George pouts. “I’d hate to add onto that.”

“But ya certainly don’t hate addin’ onto _me-”_

 _“What’s going on??”_ says Ringo. “Are we goin’ to the van?”

 _“Yes,”_ says George, and in a swift move he pulls John down by the shoulders and laps his good leg over John’s forearm. Ringo’s laughs come through right then, but as John squawks, swats and clambers to get a grip on George’s thighs does his heart start cringing again. It cringes, cringes _hard._ He hauls the food pack on to thump it out.

~

John adjusts his glasses as he reads the map- BLESS Mac’s handy aim- and manages to find the main path in no time. George’s clung tight to John’s back like a koala. Ringo follows behind, chewing on a stick of gum to will his rash (and heart) to calm down. If he kept busy, it would all be fine. They’d get the rope no problem, return Paul to John’s arms, and then he’d curl up with George all night. Absolutely, fully, _quite_ fine. 

Fine. 

Dandy. 

Be watchful of his poor ankle as they did said curling-

NO, his brain yells rudely. WHAT EVEN ARE YOU?????? 

“Shut _up_ _!”_

John whirls around in surprise and stares. Ringo prays for a tree to fall, aNYTHING.

“Uh,” says George. “You alright?”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Ringo says. “Sorry-”

John snorts. “Tell yer imaginaries to keep it down, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John hitches George up like he’s a bag. “Good.”

~

What feels like ages later, John and George let out excited yelps when the tent comes into view. The clearing is empty and more importantly, _boar-less._ Ringo runs past in relief, zips the flap shut. And John deposits George. 

_“Oi."_

“Gimme a _break_ ,” John stretches his arms to the sky. “You’re ain’t skin an’ bones yerself.”

“Hey,” says Ringo. “ ‘m putting the pack in the van. Want anythin’?”

John and George take water bottles and a Ziplock of sweets. George chugs his bottle in two gulps, stuffs his face and rolls all the wrappers, both his and John’s, into a crinkly ball. And crushes it in his fist. The ball makes a _pop_ noise.

“It doesn’t owe you,” John laughs. 

George doesn’t say anything. The wrapper ball stays in his fist. John shrugs and unwraps another gum. He’s starting to like them, admittedly. 

“So,” John says through a chew. “You packed my cornflakes.”

“Mmm.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it-”

“Geo, I want yer honest answer here,” John crumples the gum wrapper, twirling it between his fingers. “Like, don’t hold back.”

“On what?”

“D’you think- d’you think I’m a bastard?”

“Yes,” George says immediately. A little too immediately for his liking, too, but aNYWAY,

“And a shitty hus- no, _person?”_

George keeps his eyes to the ground. “All of us are shitty people,” he answers after a bit. “Sometimes we jus’ happen to be less shitty than usual.”

“So yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

John rolls his eyes. 

“ ‘kay. Thanks-”

“D’you even talk to Macca anymore?”

John stops chewing. “What’s that supposed to mean? Course I do.”

“ ‘bout what? When you’re not talkin’ bout goin’ up his ass-”

“FYI, we talk ‘bout _other_ things most of the time,” says John. “Like, uh, food, and Elvis, an' who’s gotta go pick up the tabs. Stuff. Yeah?”

George waits a paused moment before he sighs. It’s obviously a Paul-picked-up trick. One’s he’s always sort of hated. 

“What d’you talk ‘bout with Ritchie?” John counters. “Besides the honeymoon garbage.”

“It’s not- _no,_ ” George squeezes the ball with less vigour. “I don’t think… I don’t think we’ve talked much recently.”

“A likely story,” John snorts. “Ringo yaps on till the sun don’t shine-”

“Has it ever occurred to you that he’s a fuckin’ _idiot_ when it comes to this shit?” George crunches the wrapper ball again. “Sure he talks. But he won’t say what he’s thinkin’. _Ever._ He always thinks I already know what he’s thinkin’ about.”

“Oh?”

George sighs. “Y’know, I know he loves me. An’ I love him.”

“Awwww.”

“But I dunno- I, well, don’t think we’re really there.”

“What? Haven’t ya already done it?”

“That’s not what I meant,” George says, almost like a snap. “If we break up-”

“Now don’t ya go jinxin’ yerself!”

“I said _if._ IF we break up. I don’t think… don’t think I’d be able to look ‘im in the eye. We’ve gone damn past bein’ mates. If we split an’ try to go back— it’s not gonna be the same.”

John considers this. “But you’re still friends with Pattie.”

“Pat’s Pat. This is... different.”

“You say that ‘bout everyone ye kiss.”

George laughs dryly. “This is _our_  Ritch we’re talkin’ about. ’s really different.”

“How so?”

All is quiet for one, two, three, four. And then:

“Well for one, we have _more_ to talk ‘bout than uH, _food,_ _Elvis_ an’ _who picks up the tab.”_

“Oh, fuck off Geo.”

“Believe me, I would.”

“I’ll have ye know that that’s no complete list,” says John. “An’ if you wanna hear _that_ , we’d be here all night-”

“Oh Lord,” a crunch of wrappers again. _“No.”_ But George chuckles and looks to the side, hand to mouth. John chuckles too, crumples his gum wrapper and passes it to George-

And George is lighting a _cig_ in his hand. John feels like he’s been clubbed over the head. 

“What the _fuck-”_

“What,” George says, unfazed.

“You- you’re still-”

He sticks the cig in his mouth. “It’s me cheat day.”

John’s dumbstruck. All through the trip, all through the day he’d been chewing those little gum shits and feeling like a slug to please Paul. And now this mOTHERFUCKER-

“Give me one.”

George laughs again. He blows a white wisp into John’s face.

John pounces onto George, pins down his collar under forearm and his belly with both knees. His other hand grabs for the burning cig.

“You fucked up _lemon!”_ George yells hoarsely.

“Jus’ one drag,” John bargains. “Two an’ Paul never learns of this hereoowWWww _wwwWWWWWW!”_

Half the world goes blurry. George digs his fingers into John’s face, pinching his nose and scrunching his lips between dirty nails like he's found a brand new wrapper ball. 

“You _fuck_ -” John pushes his arm down harder, “You fuckin’, cuntin’, tootin’ muthafUCK-”

“What in the _hell?”_

John and George turn their heads to the grove. Ringo, rope over a shoulder like its the wildin’ west, is stood right in the grove's opening. George drops his hand. When John adjusts his glasses Ringo’s towel looks like a pigsty rag.

“Hello starshine.”

 “Get yer hands off my boyfriend!” Ringo yells.

 _“Right,_ right,” John laughs, showing both palms. George, fuckin’ cig still in hand, scoots out from under him. Then he crushes the stub in the dirt. Cripes. 

“What took you so long,” George asks conversationally. 

“Tryin’ to see if this was... long enough,” Ringo unhooks the rope off himself. “That hole’s pretty… somethin’, no?”

John takes the rope. It’s the one they’d used for tying down amps on top of cars before the van days. Paul had complained to no end about it. It wasn't class-act in the slightest, _Johnny,_ what if they don't hold an' what if EVERYTHING falls off-

“It'll do.”


	11. sCREM pt 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait! my health's been shit. 
> 
> stay tuned for more very very very very soon.

Paul turns out his phone light and cradles his plastered elbow as he crouches, counting the rhythm of some half-tune. The growling is a bad chorus that looms high over him. He was such a fucking _idiot._ George, Ringo and John were out there, far far apart and lost in the forest. What was he going to have to tell Louise? Elsie? He was the one who always thought things through. The one who planned meals down to the calorie. The one who had the patience to manage the house expenses. The one they were all _trusting_ to give them a great camp trip—

An ugly roar bursts into the air and burns bitter tears from his eyes. Everything in the woods is breathing like a fragile slumber that would lash out once awoken. In his elbow pulses a pain that matches that of his actual pulse. He turns the light on to its lowest setting, levers it over his arm. The slim red tear had fumed into a patch of crimson marks behind the plasters, searing hot when he moved it. 

The noise all starts to sound like snoring— but Mike comes to mind instead of John. They’d shared a bedroom for much longer. Paul feels a pang for him now, freshly twenty-one and out of school. He’d mailed him a scrapbook as a birthday gift. If he’d known this _bullshit_ would happen in the forest, he would’ve added more photos. He counts his breaths again. And counts. And counts. And counts—

Paul jolts up at another sudden noise, throwing himself back against the gross wall. There are no more growls. He blinks quickly, and right across and above him is George. He lets out a relieved sob. 

“Sorry,” George says with all his innocence. “You’ve waited long.”

George's kneeling beside Ringo, angled so their eyes meet. 

“How’ve you been?” Ringo calls. 

“Alright,” Paul answers, wiping his face determinedly. “Really alright.”

~

John stays with his back turned away, unspooling Ringo’s coils in the rope. It's much thinner than it looks when he holds it out as one bare line, ready to break in two. 

“I’ll hold up the back,” he’d announced on their trudge back, George digging heels into his thighs. “Ringo, you’re at the front.”

Ringo now squeezes the other end of the rope and drops it down the well. George shoves himself up to his feet and takes the length between them both, leaning back on his good foot. John feels a tickle of a breeze by his face. 

“Paul!” Ringo yells. “Whenever you’re ready—”

First, a weak tug. John takes a measured breath in and a step back. The next tug sends him hurtling, crashing into George’s back. Ringo’s nose zips high into the air as he stops himself from getting yanked in with Paul. The rope shakes, embeds itself into the lines of John’s palms. He twists it around both his knuckles and tugs, tugs. It’s all starting to hurt properly now. Fresh sweat blooms in the divides of his fingers.

“Put yer _backs_ into it!” he bellows. 

Another fierce tug from below. George staggers, forced on a bunny hop, but holds on. Ringo’s turned to his side, dragging the heels of his feet through dark grass. 

“Ringo, pull harder!”

“ ‘m trying!”

“Try _harder!”_

George’s hip collides with John’s stomach, and blurs up the world again as he tumbles against the foliage. He pushes his glasses back in place, and all of a sudden his hands are devoid of rope. George hisses jaggedly and crawls to the hole on his hands, stuck on half his side like a beached mermaid. Ringo’s stretched out where he’s fallen starfish style. 

And at his feet is Paul, head down, rope-wrapped hands clawing furiously at the grass. 

George heaves himself over and up in a tremendous effort, arms out, seizes Paul in what is both an embrace and an attempt to free his legs. Paul’s arms soar up to grab George’s shoulders- his back arches further downwards as scrabbly, throaty pants escape his mouth— all which culminate into a small shriek as Paul collapses on top of George, splayed like a spider. John lets out a deep-seated breath.

“Did we get ‘im?” Ringo asks, nose still turned to the sky. 

~

Paul shouts that he doesn’t want to be carried, but doesn’t bat an eye when George and Ringo smother him in hugs that nearly knock them all over. John coils the rope awkwardly. 

“We’re gettin’ you home,” says George, nose pressed to Paul’s cheek. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“What happened to yer elbow?” Ringo asks. 

John turns to look just then, as Paul neatly tucks his arm away. Alright then. 

“Macca,” Ringo persists, “That isn’t a scratch—”

“It's fine.”

“ ‘s bleedin’!”

“Let’s go,” says George. “We’ll go sit down, yeah?”

John wants to laugh at himself. He’d been playing with the image of scooping Paul up in his arms, playing a gallant knight as he ferried him back to the van. Paul walks ahead of them all with an angry stoop, an adamant hand around his bloody elbow. 

“Who has the key.”

“You are not driving,” says George. 

“An’ I ain’t planning to. I jus’ wanna make sure whoever _does_ knows what they’re doin’.”

“Now don’t ya worry,” John rolls his eyes. “I’ll be packin’ the tent.”

Paul opens his mouth as if to ask why, before he looks down at his elbow again. And George’s limp. And Ringo’s curled fist. John feels his shoulders drop. 

“Right. Give me the key. I’m jus’ going to _sit down,_ ” he clarifies for George. “Everyone knows how to fold the poles, right?”

Ringo tosses him the key, to which Paul catches without a hitch. His bloody elbow looks glossy in its full glory as he lets it hang down, slowly walking into the grove.

“ ’s infected, isn’t it?” George says once Paul’s out of earshot. 

Ringo nods. 

“Ah, shit,” John groans. “What’re we supposed to do ‘bout that?”

“You could at least pretend to care,” says George. 

“Now don’t you fuckin’ start—”

 _“No,”_ goes Ringo, almost a plea. “For _fuck’s_ sake, we jus’ got ‘im out! We don’t need any more holes!”

“The _fuck_ does that mean?” says George. 

“Don’t argue with each other! _Please!_ Macca’s already safe. We’ll just pack up and go,” Ringo replies in one breathless stream. And starts off where Paul’s gone. “I’m watchin’ you,” he adds like it's supposed to make them scared. “Don’t. Argue.”

George heaves a sigh. John waits until Ringo’s a dark shape in the grove before he squats to pull out the tent pegs— and releases a fart. George jumps out of his skin hollering like he’s never heard one in his life. 

“Get over it!” says John. George looks as if he’s having war flashbacks. “ ‘s natural!”

George doesn’t say anything. He casts a wary eye around the bushes, face screwed into a harder, sharper stare than usual. If John’s heart wasn’t still hammering from all the rope rescue and Macca blood, George would’ve just been being daft over rustling leaves and the dark. 

“Oi,” John pulls the first peg from the dirt. “Ya gonna help me, magpie?”

It works, at least. George kneels over the huge tent bag, catches everything that's tossed his way. When John rolls the canvas towards him George flattens out the puffs with a spread of hands, leans the knee of his good leg over to press it firm-down. 

“Can’t believe ya fucked in this.”

“We cleaned up,” John assures him. “That’s all Clapton wants, really.”

George snorts. “Ye better have.” 

John tries pushing the bulk of roll into the bag. It absolutely _refuses_ to fit, even when he pulls at the corners. 

“Aw, bugger this to hell—”

“Just shove it _in,_ mate.”

“What d’you think I’ve been doing then? Havin’ tea?”

John lifts the roll of canvas up and flips it like changing a battery. It still doesn’t fit.

“Ugh, you’ve probably rolled it wrong.”

 _“You_ roll it then.”

“What? No.”

John steps back with a grin, and with another flip of the wrists unravels the canvas along with him. 

~

The guilt settles finally when George does manage to roll the canvas up again, and does it faster, smaller, tighter, neater and therefore better anyway. John opens the bag, and the roll slides in like a glove. He turns his face up at George’s scowl, and immediately drops down with a hiss. George's pulled the zip, nicked it into his thumb. He sighs.

"Oh, dear, really?"

"Fuckin' move," says George. 

The breeze around them continues to sway the trees, even louder as John moves his hand out of the way. He looks back at George. "You didn't wanna camp, did you?"

Yet again George doesn't reply immediately. He looks up at the grove opening first, as if checking for signs of Paul. "I _wanted_ to come," he says. "And if it made Paul happy-"

"He ain’t here, Geo."

"I _liked_ the idea," he asserts. "The trees, the life..."

"What about the _bondin’_ , then?"

"We live in the same fucking flat," he laughs. "If anythin', that bonding shite's just Macca's excuse to shag ye in a forest."

John chuckles too. But he can't help his mind from wandering- it jumps from Paul in the tent, moaning as heat flourishes between their mouths like they haven't seen each other in years, to him as a sad, apple-chomping sod in the well. And _then_ there’s Ringo, who might’ve never wanted to come either— but did, because he was a pal. And ended up flouncing in a pigsty towel with blisters atop his blister-fingers. He taps his own on the edge of the bag, a test. He's alright. He has both his ankles. He’s not beat, not down a hole; he has not fallen. 

Somehow it shakes him as the biggest injustice in the world. 

"I really do love Macca, y'know," he says. It's barely coherent when he hears it sound out. 

“What?”

“I love Paul, and I haven't been fair to him," John purses his own lips, as if refreshing them will let the words come easier. "He's always doing what I want him to do. Look at the fucking bet— he nearly lost his god _damn_ mind, and yet he still... well, he broke ‘imself out, too, but— oh, _god._ He’s an idiot. He slid down our fuckin' drainpipe, didja know?" 

"I was there," George scoffs, but with no real hate. “What an idiot.”

 _"My_ idiot."

“Who's havin' their honeymoon garbage now, huh?"

John swats at him. George swats back. John leans over to fight back, but he barely makes it before George licks his fingers and smears them square over John’s jaw. His eyes screw shut, attack abandoned. 

“You take the tarp,” George rises, gathers up the tent bag and hobbles to the grove. “You're both idiots.”

John, in all his fucked-up-guilt-and-glee, snorts.

~

In the van, Paul swigs from a hip flask that no one knows he’s brought. His head rests uncomfortably against the window, slid open for air. His cut elbow- his right one, thankfully— is bound in a sheath of warm gauze, dotted with red from both him and Ringo. The rope burns had done a number on his blister fingers. Paul sacrifices another towel mopping him up, and bandages his fingers under whispered instructions. 

Ringo has one hand on the radio and a swathed brick with fingers on the wheel. The radio crackles to life with [something](https://open.spotify.com/track/1UJNbgfTzG1gZZTWFJdMf1?si=YQWoYSajRJGqpkMF1rFtqw) that Paul remarks with, _ey, Gorillaz._ He isn’t averse to it, he likes them alright, but at this very moment his insides are pulling at him. Upbeat snare drums fill the car.

“Sup fuckers,” says John. 

Paul damn near spills his wine. The van doors slide, crash, and John and the gargantuan tent bag AND the folded tarp load themselves into the backseat till there’s barely any space. 

“Put it in the back,” Paul spits.

“The tarp?” asks John. “I was goin’ to.”

“Put the _bag_ ,” Paul so carefully enunciates, “In the _back_. Jesus.” 

John’s spotted the flask. “Give us a swig.”

“ ‘s my piss.”

“I’ll take my chances,” says John, and artfully nicks the flask from his hands. “Ey Ringsy, how’s yer Richard?”

Paul blinks. “What?”

“Fuck off,” Ringo groans, half-there. 

“Well excuse me for bein’ a concerned citizen,” John laughs, topping it with a hearty drink. “After all, ‘s national treasure—”

“Oh, fuck _off!”_

George’s head cuts through right then, dwarfed in the door of the passenger seat. Ringo jumps. John bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, _Geo!_ Thank god,” says Paul. “Where’ve you been?” 

“Packin’ the tent. And _thanks,_ John!” George says the fakest, brightest tone there is. “For leavin’ me in the grove!”

“John!” Paul scolds.

“What? He’s here,” John says as if George isn’t here. 

“Might I remind you I have one fucntionin’ ankle?”

 _“John!”_ Paul gasps. “Geo, what ‘appened to you?”

“Fell off a tree.”

Snort. “The fuck were you doin’ in a tree?” 

“Oi,” Ringo turns the radio down. “Which way is out?”

“Oh, uh, check the map, where’s the—”

“Shine a light. I’ve got it,” says John. 

George hands over his torch. 

“ ‘kay, where are we?”

“The other side of the woods,” Paul prods a spot where the drawn trees are parted on both sides for their grove. “If we drive straight ahead and, uh, turn right at a cross, we’ll be on the motorway.”

“A cross?” Ringo clarifies, switching the headlights on.

“That’s right,” Paul says with new, satisfying relief. He closes his eyes and takes in a single breath. They’re banged up, but of course bonded, and they're all together at last. Everything was going to turn out just fi—

“What the  _fuck,”_ George says suddenly. 

Paul’s eyes snap open. Barely twenty feet away, in the middle of the only road between the van lights and home, lies an ENORMOUS boar.


	12. starrison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of a season. 
> 
> i hope you like it. <3
> 
> *slight warning for a dead animal, spoilers for Hereditary (2018) and a LOT of fucking swearing.

“Shit,” Paul says. _“SHIT—”_

“Oh, _Christ_ ,” Ringo whispers hatefully. He puts his head on the wheel. The song on the radio smiles at them like they’re all fucking dead dunces. “How long has it been there???—”

“Is it.............… sleeping?” John squints, gripping the back of the driver’s seat. The boar’s lying perfectly still on its side, head and tusks aglow in the van lights. They’re all sharing a single held breath, a pact of some sort. 

“It’s a hog, John,” says Ringo. “Sleep or not, it lives up to its name.”

“Huh? What name?”

“Sleepin’ like a hog.”

 _“Log,_ Ritchie,” Paul corrects. His hands are covering his mouth, but his voice is clear, on a high edge. “Oh, _Jesus,_ what now?”

“We should check it,” says John.

“An’ how d’you propose we do that?” George questions. “Bonus if there’s a way fer us to keep all our limbs—”

“Calm down,” Ringo says, though he sounds like could use some soothing himself. He undoes his own seatbelt with a click. 

“What the FUCK, no!”

John shushes him fast. George flashes him an ugly glare and pulls Ringo’s shirt sleeve, unblinking. 

“Uh.”

“You gone fuckin’ _mad?”_ George hisses. “Have ya not seen what it’s capable of?”

“Um, _no,_ actually?”

“Look, you’re hurt.”

“An’ so are you! Least I stand a chance of _runnin’_ if it sniffs me out!”

“You can’t run fast,” George is surprised at how shaky he sounds. “I’ll go.”

“Now you’re jus’ bein stupid.”

“I’ll go _with_ you, stupid!”

“Oh God,” groans Ringo. “You really don’t get it, do you?—”

“No, I _don’t!_ I don’t get it at all! You make me fuckin’ head spin!”

A gulp of silence. John and Paul are on the edge of the backseat, gawping like they’re at the circus. George’s heart is thudding like— oh Lord, _anything_ but a drum, please— and Ringo’s ice-eyes freeze in a way he’s never seen. 

_“Ye spin me right round baby rightround—”_

_“John!”_ Paul shushes.

Ringo turns the radio off with a flip of the knob. “Well. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

He opens his door, and leaves it as he steps outside. John lets out a yell. He reaches out to grab Ringo by his collar, but instead scoops a fist of air. George shoves his door open in a blink, walks after him with shambling steps. His ankle feels like a crushed ball of paper, but he stands on it firmly when he reaches Ringo and the sleeping boar. Its hooves are stuck right out, hide dark enough for it to be pure shadow.

 _Then_ , glimmering darkly under the lights, he spots rivers of huge black ants. They swarm over anything they can climb on, dotting the white tusks like they’re sugar cubes fallen out of the bowl. A stench of rot floats over it. It’s not strong enough to be hold-your-nose stifling yet, but it’s _horrible._ He steps back once, twice, when he can’t help the shudder that strikes him like a bolt. 

~

Ringo turns to the van as Paul pokes his head out the window. Ringo wets his cracked lips, draws his finger across his neck. Paul gulps. He clacks the window shut, reappears with a shocked John. 

“Aw, fuck,” John pinches his nose. “We didn’t do that, did we?”

“Don’t ask me,” says Paul. “I’ve been in Wonderland all night.”

“Well, _Alice_ , I—”

“We should call someone? Tell ‘em… ‘bout this.” George says, face hard. “I mean, ‘s just bad to leave a body unburied an’ all, especially if— ”

“Oh yeah,” John nods. “So Macca, ya got a contact or something?”

Paul blinks once. “...........how many were there?”

“What?”

“How many boars have ya seen?” Paul says, voice low. “Since we… moved from the first place.”

“Too many for a campsite, that’s for sure. _God,”_ John mutters, wipes his sweaty upper lip. “Poor thing.”

And with that— there’s a shift in Paul, so obvious that John’s gaze on him races high alert. Ringo looks up. Paul’s ruddy face whitens like a sheet and his eyes droop in a way that looks plain _wrong._ His face squashes, his lip quivers, his eyes jam closed.

“Macca?” he whispers. 

George coughs, rooted to where he’s standing. 

“Macca, my love,” John tries, laying his palms gently on Paul’s shoulders. “Oh, don’t worry, ‘m only teasin’! It wasn’t us! We ‘aven’t been near the van in _hours._ Don’t look so stricken, ye look like you’ve seen a—”

Paul opens his mouth. Whatever comes out is lost in a breathy gasp, a sob, and crumpled in a wet cry that jolts them all. 

George, mind ever clear, snaps out of it first and takes Paul’s hand. “Paulie.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul sobs. “I‘m…. ’m horrible.”

“What? _No,”_ says John. “Don’t you dare say that ‘bout— no, wait, _why?”_

“ ‘s alright,” George’s thumb rubs the back of Paul’s. “Here, breathe, take all the time y’need—”

“This isn’t,” Paul says, full of tears, “This isn’t a campsite.”

John and George exchange puzzled looks. Ringo shuffles closer.

“What— no,” says John. “Course it is, ya looked it up an’ planned it all—”

 _“No,_ John!”

“Well, the fuck is it then?”

“JOHN!” George yells. 

“I searched for campsites,” Paul nods. “But I wanted to go asap, yeah? An’ I see all these articles ‘bout gettin’ some— some landowner’s approval _shit_ before this and that.”

John blinks. “Wait, wh—”

“D’you mean we’re actually on wild land??” George asks, “ _Illegally?”_

“Oh, God, _yes_ —” Paul says, his face skyward— “YES.”

Then he sinks, like he’s released a huge weight, head nuzzled into George’s knee. John runs to steady him, stops halfway. “Jesus what the _fuck.”_

“I know it’s fucked up. I dragged you all into this,” Paul says slowly. “And I can’t— I put you all in _danger_ ,” he spits the word. “And y’know wha’s even _more_ fucked up? I really thought— I really thought we could run from danger without gettin’ _hurt._ What kind of fuckin’ friend does that? _Huh?_ Look at us! I put everyone in danger an’ spent it all down a **_fucking_** hole in the ground. Didn’t ya ever question that?”

“You were down a _hole,”_ says John. “We jus’— jus’ had to get you out—”

“It wouldn’t have _‘appened_ if we weren’t here!” Paul shouts weakly. “You said it yerself, remember? No? We shouldn’t fuckin’ be here, we nearly got mauled, Paulie’s a barmy _fucker_ who drives to some worse part o’ the woods cause he can’t let it fucking rest. And ‘s all true. Oh, _God._ I’m sorry. I jus’ wanted ta spend some time alone together because I love you all _so much_ an’ _I just want to love and_ protect _you all, is that too much to_ fucking _ask—”_

“Easy now, Princess.”

“We love you too!” Ringo says breathlessly.

“Breathe,” George reminds him. “Paul, love, _breathe.”_

George inhales deeply. Paul stops, copies him, and his entire form breathes along. He’s no longer quivering, but George continues to rub Paul’s hand, the other stroking his hair. Ringo realises he’s been holding in his breath amongst many other things. It might be the draft from the dead boar, but it very obviously isn’t.

“Oh, jeez,” Paul says embarrassedly. “This forest would’ve killed us if we slept here y’know? Lookit that poor sop,” he nods at the dead boar. “Reckon he got fuckin’ mauled by ‘is brothers.”

“For one, we’d never maul ye,” John says matter-of-factly. “Paulie. _Maulie—”_

“Oi,” says George. _“I_ was gonna say that,” he adds.

“No one’s stoppin’ ye.”

“You’ve ruined it.” But George smirks. He smooths a hand under Paul’s nose and draws a weak laugh out of him. 

All is quiet for a mo. John exhales noisily, flings himself to Paul’s side with arms slipping under arms, hugs him so tight Ringo swears they’re fusing. When George does too, bad ankle pressed to the dirt, Ringo’s skin prickles with the sudden realisation that he’s standing quite far away. 

But it all ends too quick. Paul shrieks about the dirt ground and the armies of ants like he’s oblivious to the VERY DEAD BOAR THAT THEY JUST _HUGGED_ IN FRONT OF. John and George step to the side. Paul laughs awkwardly, stares up at John with a small smile. “They’ll never let this sorta thing ‘appen on a campsite, right?”

“This isn’t one,” John supplies as he offers his hand. Paul takes it, and with a swift, clockwork tug John and George haul him back up on his feet. Paul stumbles at first, looking an absolute hot mess, but the way John looks at him is absolutely fucking _hot._ In the headlights his face is relieved, softened, smiling. He still _wants_ him, wet-faced and bloody elbow and Every. Single. Thing. His gaze turns to George, brushing dirt from his knees. And he turns away sharpish.

“Shall we return to the carriage, yer highness?” says John. 

Paul’s smile immediately vanishes. He looks at the fucked up dead boar, and sighs. 

“Ah,” says John. “Right—”

“The map,” Ringo suggests. “There’s gotta be some other exit.”

“oHJESUS,” John jumps. “Ringo!! Where’d you come from?? Holy fuckin’ shit—”

“The Dingle,” Ringo replies coolly. In his mind, another version of him flicks John right in his lovesick nose.

~

The other exit is to go back the way they came. 

“Ya sure?” George says, eyeing the boar again. He wants the radio on, but it doesn’t seem right.

“Scout’s honour,” Paul says from the backseat. “I swear on me badges.”

“And I on mine,” says John. 

“ ‘s fairly straightfoward.”

“Yeah?” Ringo laughs nervously. “What part of _reversing_ all the way out is straightforwards?” 

“All ya gotta do is press the brake, crank the lever,” says Paul. “And not back into the trees.”

“That was _one_ time,” Ringo drums his fingers on the wheel. “An’ it wasn’t dark, like. What if I run us off the road? Or I _really_ back into a tree?”

“You won’t,” John slides his window open. “I’ll be yer lookout—”

“What are you doing??” Paul yells, mortified. John sticks his head out like an excited puppy. 

“I saw someone die doin’ that,” says George. 

 _“WHAT,_ ” John yells. “You serious??? _Where????”_

“A horror film. There’s this lil’ girl, yeah, an’ she leans out the car an’ her head hits a pole and it snaps off—”

“Shuddup right now! What horror film???” 

“ _Hereditary,_ ” Ringo groans. “God, that was so fucked up.”

“I liked it,” George says quietly. He smiles at the frenzied clack of a window being shut back up. Ringo turns to face the passenger seat, checks the dimly-lit darkness around them before he eases off the brake. The neck of his top’s sweat-stained a darker colour, like it’s after a gig. 

The van reverses. 

John fidgets, leg bouncing madly. Paul sits with his head between his knees. Ringo brakes after a minute or so, checks again, steers to make a turn. The uneven dirt path is endless, lining a long corpse— no, stop, **_copse_ ** — of living trees, living things. Birches, oaks, bugs, _actual_ bugs, running all over and in of the boar’s every inch. He glances at Ringo, bent over at the wheel. He looked like he did when they had watched the damn movie under the covers, screeched and crushed George in rib-breaker squeezes.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t thought of ribs. And then everything stops as the road under them suddenly flows easy and smooth. 

Ringo roars. John and Paul clamber around the driver’s seat in a four-armed fly and latch around Ringo’s shoulders with squeals, relieved smacks of lips to the cheeks you grant to a saviour. 

George exhales and scoots over, his seat warm and cracked. There’s no room for him, but he reaches and places a hand on Ringo’s shoulder. Thinks. And leaves a _PAT_ out of all things. 

wHAT THE FUCk. He’d seen the man naked. There was a YouTube video of Ringo feverishly singing words meant for him, framed by a wonderfully hazy booming snare. All the softer mornings before that, he’d grab for Ringo and his warmth and take it all in. Fucking _cOWARD!_ he yells at his brain, they were bloody _boyfriends_ weren’t they?—

“Drive us to the chippy, Ritchie.” Paul pleads. “Rit-chee Starr.......starlight.” George takes his hand back.

“Okay majesty,” says Ringo.

John chuckles. “Oh c’mon Princess, ‘s awful late, we better get ye home—”

“Step on it, starlight!” 

~

It’s very well past one in the morning when Ringo pulls up at a McDonalds. Every other place is lights out and dark doors.

“A McChicken,” says Ringo. “The set.”

“A Big Mac,” says John. “An’ a large coke.”

“A double cheeseburger, thanks,” says Paul.

“....fries,” says George. 

“That’s all?” asks the girl behind the register.

“I’d also like a McFlurry,” Paul drops his card on the counter. “To go.”

“I thought you said we ain’t eatin’ in the van no more,” Ringo says as Paul pulls a long snake of reciept from the machine. 

“We ain’t! I jus’ want to sit at a table. _Our_ table.”

“There’re tables here,” John says half-heartedly. “I need the loo.”

Paul whispers something George can’t hear, and turns his head away. Ringo does too, scratching his chin with bandaged fingers. The McDonalds is far from crowded, with roaming graveyard shifters and teens grabbing catsup and his three literal flatmates, but he feels like he’s down a hole of his very own. And it smelt like salty oil. 

“ ‘m gonna sit in the van,” Ringo tells Paul when nosy onlookers start staring at his muddy towel skirt. There’s a non-commital noise and Ringo’s out the door before George can even look. Beside him, he can _feel_ Paul burning hot, steaming like never before. He places both hands on his shoulders.

“Oh,” Paul says, turning his head. “Hi.”

“What can I do?” 

Paul looks at him with a knowing glance, but shrugs him off gently. His hands take his, give them back. “I’m okay, y’know. Or I’ll be. Are _you_ okay?”

George doesn’t want to think about that. He holds Paul’s hands and laces their fingers like always, but this time Paul sighs testily. “I’ll handle this,” he says in a very final tone.

“You handle _everything.”_

“An’ it’s jus’ _another_ thing,” he says and he lets go, picking at his nails so George can’t hold his hands. “Trust me, please.”

“I _do.”_ George sighs. “You know I do.” 

“Ta,” Paul blows him a kiss. He turns back to staring at the order screen, breathes in and smiles. John emerges from the corner then, hair slicked back from the sink. George gives Paul’s shoulder a final squeeze, then exits stage left.

~

John bumps Paul’s shoulder. “Where’s Ringsy gone?” He nods to the van and his eyes flutter shut.

“Alright?”

“I wanna lie down.”

“You will, dear. God, what’s takin’ them so long? Its barely anythin’!”

“We’re four people, John.”

“Like four _thousand_ people c’mere everyday! Ya think they’d probably would be trained to handle more than that wouldn’t ya? I mean—”

“Order for one hundred fifty-six!” the girl behind the counter calls. Paul hands her his receipt, says stuff about _more napkins please luv_ and _oh dear no, we don’t need straws; save the earth y’know?_ and John goes over to help with the huge paper bag. The counter girl’s fiddling with her name tag and tossing back her ponytail like a curtain. She’s been eyeing Paul’s bloody bandage with a chewed lip. 

“Don’t mean to pry, but what happened over there?” 

“I jus’ fell over,” Paul says casually. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Your accent. You’re not a Londoner, are you?”

“Nope. Liverpudlian.” Paul chuckles. “That obvious?”

John rolls his eyes.

“I _knew_ it! My grandpa was scouser too. You sound just like him. And I, ah, hope you don’t mind me saying this,” she whispers to a napkin-gathering Paul, “but you’ve got _gorgeous_ eyes.”

_SHIT._

“You’re not so bad yerself, Ellie,” Paul smiles.

John bites his own tongue. He runs forward, arm curling fast and claiming around Paul’s shoulder when—

“Are you dating anybody?”

“I’m married,” Paul lays a sitcom-perfect pat on his hand. John smiles smugly. 

“Oh!” she says, clearly disappointed. But starts chuckling regardless. She’s nice enough to wave at John, even. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see a ring—”

“Left it at home,” Paul says, still smiling. 

“Oh. Dear god. I’m so sorry, I thought you were all brothers!”

“Might as well be,” John adds. “We get that a lot.”

~

George nearly digs out a cig at the entrance before spotting Ringo in the driver’s window. He’s doing a jig and shooting finger guns left-right. It’s fucking _cute_. He walks around and opens the passenger door with a grin. 

Ringo screeches and punches his phone, but the [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/20jYtEun4dUdYZ9foaOC48?si=tTtJIeJsRvGKfHOxy-LbvA) blares even louder.

George tilts his head. “Seriously?—”

“Oh my GOD,” Ringo cries, mortified. He hits pause at last and immediately sinks into himself. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.”

George climbs into the passenger seat. 

“Stop judging me,” says Ringo.

“ ‘m not!”

“Yes you are! You’re tryin ta hold back!”

 George bites his lip. “No.” And then he sNORTS.

_“Geooooooooo!!”_

“That song,” George laughs, “Fuckin’ sucks!”

 _“You_ suck!” Ringo hides his face in his hands. The silence makes George _almost_ wish the awful song was still on. 

“Shit, no, sorry. You don’t.” Ringo chuckles, edged with a twitchiness that looks like it stings. “I like trash, okay? It’s fun.”

“If ya say so.”

“Where’re the McLennons? Why’re you here? ”

“I just… jus’ thought I’d keep ya company an’ all.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Ringo pushes himself back up in the seat, legs still clad in the towel. “Thanks.”

A moment passes, like a rough scratch on the back of a neck. Ringo drums his fingers on the wheel, cheeks puffed. 

George takes a breath in. “How’s yer rash?”

“Fine,” Ringo squeaks. “I think.”

“Did they burst? The rope burn an’ blisters… oh Lord, rope burn AND blisters!”

“But I’ve still got it,” Ringo does a jazz hand. “They can’t kill me, I’m a bad b—”

“Let me see,” says George.

Ringo’s eyes widen. George holds both his hands out, and the air in the van feels like it’s been run through a burner. Ringo rests his white glove of a hand in his palms, the tips of his fingers little pink stubs. 

“Wow,” says George. “You wrapped it yerself?”

“Course not. I jus’ gave Macca instructions. He’s pretty handy, eh?”

“Instructions?”

“When ya spend yer whole youth in hospital ya learn a few things.”

 _Hospital._ Of course he knows this, but something falls loose in George when he hears it, like a prickling. His mouth’s in the shape of an _Oh,_ but no sound comes out. It’s far too little for someone who’s gone through so much. 

“Uhm,” Ringo says, and George looks down to see that he’s actually _holding_ Ringo’s hand in his, the other limp near the brake. 

“Ack,” George steers Ringo’s hand back onto the wheel. “Sorry—”

“Nononono _wait!_ I like it! You’re real comfy!” Ringo protests. His hand wriggles rigidly in George’s as he props himself up to sit closer. “Shit, if I could jus’ bend these....”

George holds Ringo’s hand again, careful.

“Better?”

“Mmm.”

Their hands sway a bit, unsure. George lies back against his seat with his head slant and eyes the streets through the grubby windshield. 

“Y’know,” he says, “this is the longest day of my life.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah? Feels like its been night for six months, don’t ya?”

Ringo shrugs. “ ‘m jus’... really glad we made it out in one piece.” 

“Oh, _Lord_."

"Yeah? What the actual _hell_ was Macca thinkin’? ‘m not _mad_ at him or anythin’ like that, but……. least we’re all okay.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, we’re all _alive._ How’s yer foot?”

“Fine. Can’t show ya though,” George says in mock solemnity. “Unless you can wrap me back up.”

Ringo pouts. “I didn’t learn _everything_.”

“An’ ya don’t have to, really. And I’m real sorry fer kickin’ ye,” he bites his own cheek quick. “Does it still hurt?”

“.......huh?”

“Yer _dick,_ Dick.”

“Oh,” says Ringo. He looks like he wants to perish. “ ‘s…. _fine._ And _never_ call me that again, ya get?”

“Yes Mister Starr.”

Ringo looks at him incredulously. 

“............no?” 

Ringo doesn’t answer. His nose scrunches for a moment before he turns, facing London. His head falls slowly onto George’s shoulder.

Oh, Lord. 

“Don’t _do_ that,” Ringo whispers.

“Do what?” George whispers back.

“Being so……. _Lovey_ , y’know? I don’t deserve you! I feel like… I’ve been a mess. Do I really make yer head spin?”

George squeezes Ringo’s hand gently. “Yes.”

“You make mine spin too.”

The van aircon makes a low hum just then, sending a gust of cold right that blows Ringo’s fringe up. George blinks. 

“Uh, Geo.”

“.....sorry, yeah? 

“D’you— no, _did_ ya ever think that I asked you out because of the tats?”

George blinks again. He’s scrabbling off John’s chair in his going-out tee and numb-arse tighty whities because Ringo’s screaming in their room. Maybe he’s fallen off the bed, or hurt—

_YOUR NAME’S ON MY ARSE!_

“Yeah.”

Ringo lifts his head back up then, inching back to his own seat with his free hand. His ice-eyes are still wide, but drooped. 

“I didn’t think it immediately,” George continues. “I did think it at, um, Christmas. Fuckin’ Lenny and Mac an’ their truth-or-dares, y’know? That sucked. But then ye took _care_ of me an’ all, and… after that I jus’ didn’t see it that way. But then, this trip— my trip, in the grove?”

“The grove?”

“I..... sort of knee’d you in the cock. Again.”

“Oh God. Okay.”

“An’ then you said—”

A loud slam on window.

George and Ringo scream. John’s face is pressed up against the glass with a smirk. Paul stands behind him with crossed arms, paper bag fit to burst. 

~

They leave the tent bag in the trunk— it’s not that grubby— and haul their own bags to the building lift. John holds Paul’s things as he searches for the pouch with his key. The food’s soaked through with grease, falling through the bottom of the bag and splattering on the table.

Paul doesn’t bat an eye. He eats his ice-cream, bites his burger, drinks when John offers him the coke and steals fries from both George and Ringo. John’s going off about some story Paul spun the cashier girl who took their orders, _married_ and a _honeymoon in Paris_ and _fresh cut roses from the hotel flowerbox everyday,_ eatin’ it up like honey on a spoon wasn’t she Paulie. Paul simply nods, smiles. He balls up his wrapper when the burger’s gone. 

 “ ‘m going to bed,” he announces. 

John starts jamming his burger down his throat. “Me too.”

“Ya haven’t touched your fries,” says Ringo.

“You have ‘em then!”

Paul blows them all another weak kiss as he tosses the wrap, hand still out as he slumps off to his room. John knocks his fries all over the table and skips off after him like an—

“Idiot,” Ringo whispers. The McLennon door shuts with a bang.

~

 _“Jesus,”_ Paul seethes, tumbling onto their bed. “Can you not?”

“It slipped,” John wipes his hands on his shirt. “Want me to run the bath?”

“No.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Really??”

“Really.”

“I’ll light yer candles for you—”

_“No.”_

“Oh, Paulie,” John climbs in next to Paul, chin in his hand. “You do know that all’s forgiven.”

“Is it?”

“Well, I have. An’ Geo’s _whipped_ for ye. Not sure ‘bout Ringsy though, but y’know he ain’t ever held a grudge.”

Paul stares. John’s still wearing his glasses. 

“Not sure he even knows the meanin’ of the word,” John adds.

Paul props himself up, too, lets the bandaged elbow lie flat. And when John’s eyes follow it, all the way to where it rests on his pillow, does he suddenly realise. 

He’s in charge.

John is perfectly compliant this time— he should be overjoyed, it’s what he wanted, it’s a glorious moment— and yet his heart refuses to take it. Everything blurs with a traitorous wetness.

“Aw, Macca,” John coos, cupping Paul’s face with a familiar softness that just makes it harder for him to breathe. He’s fuming, burning angry. He wants to howl in John’s face. He wants to bury his nose in John’s neck and fall asleep there just to make him sore. He closes his hand around John’s wrist.

“What is it that ya want?” John whispers. “Name it, I’ll do it. Anything.”

“Anythin’.”

“Yeah. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll get you anything you want.”

“I want a dog.”

John pauses. His eyes fill with a delicious surprise. 

“I’ll get you _almost_ anything you want.”

Paul rolls his eyes. 

“Dogs aren’t _allowed_ in the buildin’, Macca! D’you want me to make breakfast? I’ll make yer breakfast.”

“You don’t know how to do it right.”

“I’ll make Geo help me.”

Paul pouts once and draws away from his hands.

“Oh,” John laments. 

“I want a shower.”

John breathes in relief. He wipes Paul’s cheek quick, “Okay, I’ll get yer things—”

“And I want you inside me.”

~

“Idiot,” Ringo whispers. 

 George picks up one particularly long fry from John’s pile and adds it to his own. “Idiots.”

A gaping hole of silence eats the flat. The walls were thin. John and Paul had probably _really_ gone to bed. 

“God,” Ringo says so suddenly that it sends a yelp out of George. Ringo yelps too, drops his burger. “Shit, ya alright there?”

“Yeah,” George stuffs a fry in his mouth. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“God, I miss me mam,” Ringo wipes his mouth fiercely with a napkin that’s stained bright with chili sauce. But he removes it perfectly clean. 

“I miss Elsie too. She alright?”

“She called last week, ya know. An’ she was havin’ this cry. She nearly rented me old lair to lodgers.”

“Lodgers?”

“Lodgers. Funny I know. Considerin’ it’s the Dingle. But we gotta help each other out. So I say give ‘em the room, jus’ fold me Shrek poster up nice—”

“You still have that thing?” George laughs.

“It was a gift! An’ the story’s gear.”

“I still prefer Bee Movie.”

Ringo stares like he’s been mortally offended. George coyly picks up another fry and chews the tip off. Ringo collects his burger with a sigh.

“If ya say so.”

George stops mid-chew. His fry tastes gritty. Ringo gives a listless peck at his burger, and then drops it again. 

“Geo, what did I say in the grove?”

“Wh—what?”

“Oh sweet Jesus, you were telling me somethin’ important,” he groans. “An’ I only remember that now?? God, I’m sorry. What was it?”

George has to admit he’s stunned at how _clear_ the demand is— Ringo’s fingers are digging into his own palms and his shirt is still dark with sweat, but he’s here and unflinching. He feels a trickle of pride spilling into his heart. And with it comes a fear, too. He’s never seen Ringo like this and almost doesn’t want to. It might hurt.

“I— I fell on top of ye,” he starts. “An’ you laugh.”

“But I said somethin’ .”

“ ‘ _Makin’ up for last night are we?’_ ” George chuckles horribly. “I didn’t get it at first, y’know. I thought you were flirtin’ with me. But then— I dunno, I jus’ started thinkin’....” he looks down at his fry. It’s a sorry, soggy little thing. 

“.....go on.” Ringo says gently.

“I started wonderin’ if that’s all it means to ye,” he confesses. “I mean, John and Paul, they’ve got each other. JohnandPaul are all they’ve got now that we’re all the way over here. And that…. jus’ left me an’ you, don’t it? I’m the only _other_ one here.  We share a room, the bed from the very first day. It was gear. I really _loved_ you. I just wanted to wake up an’ see your eyes opening because they made me feel at home, you know? Then you wake up one day and me name’s all splashed down yer arse. Yours over mine. I didn’t know what to make of it—”

George’s voice breaks. He turns away to cough into his fist, and Ringo’s hands come to his shoulders. 

“John always said it’s good to touch,” he says. “Go on.”

“I was packin’ last night, the food an’ my own stuff, an’ I was _tired._ I fell asleep, and… I would’ve fucked. Really would’ve. But I didn’t. And when I realise what ya meant by ‘last night’, I just…. took it bad.”

“Why?”

“Am I a convenience?” George says, eyes watering. “Same room, same bed, happens to _not_ be JohnandPaul, happens to have your name branded on his arse. Awfully stupid shit, ain't it? I just wanted an answer.” 

His tears don’t spill, and he’s half glad they don’t. Ringo’s hands remain, listening eyes-wide. 

“....that’s why you came with all the _what-are-we_ biz.”

“And then you called me your boyfriend.”

Ringo blinks. He lowers his eyes to the table. 

“Oh,” says Ringo. “I did. I technically never asked, did I?”

“No,” George whispers. He turns away and his eyes snap shut to cut away the tears. “I just fucking _assumed—”_

“You really don’t remember me sayin’ I love you first?”

George turns back. Oh, right.

“Remember Christmas? Or, um, before Christmas? The cookies thing?"

“Yes?”

"You and I were tryin' to mop the floor."

“ _Oh_ ,” George cringes. “Yes.”

“I meant it,” Ringo says, strong. “I love you. I’m _in love_ with you. My tat? A bonus, an’ I loved you even before it existed. An’ you’re— you’re like a miracle, y’know? I didn’t think you’d like me back. It’s like I‘m having this wonderful dream.”

Ringo’s eyes tear up as well, ice melting in a drink. George reaches out, but Ringo beats him to it, dabbing the bandage at them like a hanky. 

“Y’know,” he says. “Before the move an’ all— before you and I— I just messed around. Kissed people and watched Shrek on their phone in the morn. But with you??  _Christ._ It was like……... my dick was on fire.”

George blinks. “ ‘m….. sorry?”

“No! A _sweet_ fire,” Ringo babbles. “But still, a fire _,”_ he says. “And it spread and ate my heart whole , like. You’re different, _really_ different. Because… you’re you. Your heart, that _lovely_ thing, it cares so much. I can’t believe you’re really real sometimes.”

George stares. Ringo’s smiling at him now, eyes flecked with damp. Said heart feels like it’s doing a drum solo. A drum solo set to, perhaps, a song about love.

Ringo scrubs his face again. “Jeez, I’ve gone on forever.”

“ ‘s alright.”

“Oh, Geo. I never thought I’d get this far. I thought jus’ havin’ you agree to go out with me such a miracle. I didn’t even ask properly.”

George smiles back, wipes his own eye. “Ask what properly.”

“Boyfriends,” Ringo says, eyes shut. “Be mine, and I’ll be yours. Go to the movies till we’re old an’ grey an’ can’t remember each other’s names. I probably will though. An’ kiss during all of ‘em—”

George takes Ringo’s face in his hands. His eyes, bluer than ever before, open wide for one second before they start to close, slowly, into a peaceful rest. George tilts his chin up just the slightest, and captures Ringo’s lower lip between his own. 

Ringo takes in a shaky draw of breath that trembles George and everything that he is. He presses up against Ringo’s chest, legs to the side so they can be heart-to-heart with absolutely no gaps. Ringo kisses back, deep and warm,  a firecracker vision in how his fingers glide up George’s neck and wind themselves in his hair, giving himself over entirely. George sighs, nips Ringo’s lips with a tenderness that engulfs him like a fiery wave. 

“Is this a yes,” Ringo asks, grinning.

“It’s an _of course_ , stupid,”  George mutters, sinking deep into the hold. “An’ I can’t believe you risked yerself on a boar.”

Ringo smiles against his lips. “Better me than any of you—”

“Bull _shit_ ,” George hisses through a rough kiss that positively melts them both, slack arms that shiver with gasps. “You’re never thinkin’ that again,” he says in a pull back for air. “Ya hear?”

“Yes Mister Harrison.”

“Oh, you _bloody_ charmer, you—”

A loud crash rings through the flat. 

George and Ringo scream, grab ahold of each other. All is dead silent before vERY DISTINCT MOANING fills the air. Even more crashes follow. The McLennon door creaks open like a horror film.

Ringo lets out a groan. 

“Fuck,” says George. He eats a fry off the table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so so much for reading!! i know this took very long, so i really appreciate everyone who's continued to read and leave reviews. thank you very very much. and please do let me know if you enjoyed! 
> 
> feel free to come talk to me on Tumblr @rufusrant. I love making friends!
> 
> seeyou next season!


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